


Mad Season

by sian1359



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Movie, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian1359/pseuds/sian1359
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The World Security Council prefers Emil Blonsky in the Avengers Initiative, not Bruce Banner. SHIELD doesn't think that's a good idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mad Season

**Author's Note:**

> My biggest props to auburnnothenna once more, who always makes me sound better than I am. Any remaining mistakes are strictly my own, especially in the few pages she suggested but never saw.
> 
> Once upon a time, this was written for the 2012 Hurt/Comfort Big Bang that has temporarily (I only hope) imploded. I couldn't keep it in indefinite limbo any longer.
> 
> Title and opening quote come from the Matchbox Twenty song of the same name.

_I feel stupid, but I know it won't last for long  
And I've been guessin', and I coulda been guessin' wrong  
You don't know me now, I kinda thought that you should somehow  
Has that whole mad season got ya down?_

 

******

 

"Does it bother you to think that we're basically standing on the same ground that killed John Wayne, John Ford and over half their casts and crews?"

For a second Clint Barton thought about not answering the corporal he'd been assigned. The one who'd, of course, waited until the jeep and its driver was turned around and headed away in a cloud of dust, leaving Clint no choice but to listen or ignore the kid. He'd already had the lecture about playing nice with the Army boys, however, especially the ones so young and gullible like Corporal Keen. Even if Coulson was now a hundred miles or so west of them on his own task, even if Clint had determined Agent Sitwell had the same mindset as Clint in this (that this was the Army's problem and they deserved it), Coulson would find out if he made the Army cry foul to the WSC – or just cry.  And Coulson would be _disappointed_.

So Clint simply shook his head while settling his weapons case over the mesh backpack containing a couple of bottles of water plus assorted items he alway kept close at hand. " _The Conqueror_ was filmed over in St. George," he corrected Keen as he watched the jeep's trip back. "Which is about a hundred and fifty miles east and south of here in Utah, just beyond the Arizona border. While we're closer to the testing grounds, the prevailing wind patterns now and then haven't salted our ground with radioactivity."

"Huh?"

Clint bit back his sigh. "The film you're talking about was called _The Conqueror._ Directed by Dick Powell, not John Ford. Ford like to film in Monument Valley, by the way, which is about two hundred and fifty miles further east of St. George."

(So sue him, Clint happened to like John Wayne and John Ford films, even the ones that weren't westerns or paeans to military service. Watching The Duke play Genghis Khan made him fucking laugh every time, and _The Quiet Man_ was still his all-time favorite.)

"So John Ford didn't die of cancer?"

"He did, but probably because he was a smoker, not because he filmed on toxic land." Keen had exaggerated the percentage of deaths by cancer that had come to _The Conqueror's_ crew, but the number was still much higher than the statistical average, so Keen's point was valid. If they hadn't been well north of Yucca Mountain and the old testing grounds. Or if they were going to be staying here for weeks or months instead of days.

Actually, if all went to plan, Clint and Sitwell were only supposed to be here for the day before driving on to join Coulson over at Edwards Air Force base to help look over whatever new toys Tony Stark was trying to sell to SHIELD. Then back to New York by the end of the week. He and Sitwell were here in the back ass end of nowhere as observers – and back up in Clint's case – at Colonel Fury's insistence. The Army (by way of the World Security Council) intended to add Blonsky to SHIELD's Avenger Initiative. The brief nature of their stopover was a good thing as far as Clint was concerned; he'd been stuck in the southwest part of the country long enough now that he sometimes woke thinking he was back in Afghanistan.

Keen wasn't letting the nuclear waste thing drop. "Are you sure we're safe?" he asked. "Colonel Bricker confiscated the Geiger counter I bought down in Vegas, and I'm sure I've seen dosimeters under his and the eggheads' collars."

The only radiation likely to kill them here was of the gamma variety contained within the test subject, not left over atomic fallout from the mid fifties, but Clint had no idea of Keen's clearance level or how much he'd actually been told about Blonsky and the upcoming experiment. And as Clint's presence here was to stop such an attack …

"You'll be fine, kid," Clint offered, pulling out a pair of fingerless climbing gloves from one of his pockets, then added his sunglasses before moving to the hillside.

His assigned sniper's nest was atop the ridgeline a hundred and twenty meters, give or take, above them. Sheer rock face comprised the upper half of the hillside, the remainder being filled with the kind of scrub and dirt that crumbled under your hands and into your face. The advance team – maybe even Keen – had anchored a cargo net to aid them in the last part of the near vertical climb, but it was still going to be a work-out.

Clint wondered why the first team had been ferried by helicopter while he was going to have to climb, before deciding that if it was strictly for the inconvenience, he'd better not know since that would definitely lead him to breaking his promise to behave. "You might want to save your breath for climbing," he added when Keen started to open his mouth again.

Any reply Keen might have made became background noise that Clint tuned out as he started to climb, not caring if the kid thought he was an asshole, or if he thought instead that Clint's taking the lead was a Marine versus Army thing. It wasn't, although Clint never claimed he wasn't an asshole.

As for the whole intra-service rivalry, that had never been his thing; he'd even done a stint in Army after he'd been recruited by SHIELD, to track terrorist movements through Iraq, albeit under an assumed name (and hadn't bomb disposal been fun). Unlike most former Marines, Clint didn't still think of himself as one – becoming an Agent of SHIELD had a way of turning everything else before into one long training exercise; the orphanage, the circus, the Marines, being a merc. The only bout of Marine superiority Clint still felt was in how they'd turned away from the Army's thinking that Scouts and Snipers needed be two different functions. He didn't need a scout – a _spotter_ – nor did he want the company; taking out the enemy should be a solitary thing or, at best, between him and his handler on the other end of his radio.

The Army knew better, of course. So they'd saddled him with a kid who relied on a laser range-finder and his spotter scope's mil dots instead of experience and instinct. Despite Clint knowing he'd have his own range targeting, bullet drop and windage calculations done in his head and firing well before Keen divined his numbers from his equipment. Just as the Army also was picking his nest – and his weapon – conducting the typical rear echelon armchair quarterbacking he thought he'd left behind when he'd joined SHIELD. (By the time SHIELD was called in, most jobs were pretty much ends justifying the means and there was a lot of freedom in that. Clint was trusted to know what he needed for his role in their ops, just as he trusted Sitwell or Coulson or one of the other handlers to keep track of the big picture.)

While being denied the use of his preferred sniper rifle, Clint had refused to undertake the job without having his bow. No doubt the Army Colonel who'd handed over the tranq rifle (after making Sitwell _sign_ for its use – or maybe he'd just been signing for the very limited quantities of ammunition Clint had been allowed to carry) had dismissed Clint's bow as useless and, thereby, not dangerous. Clint had had no reason to correct him, while Sitwell had most likely been so used to seeing Clint with it that it hadn't even registered.

Clint had seen the footage of Blonsky and Banner tearing up Harlem, however, and he wasn't about to go out with only ten shells and no other form of defense. (He was carrying two knives too, but he'd never survive close quarter combat with the abomination Blonsky had turned into after his mutation; getting close enough to use his recurve bow would be dangerous enough.)

Fifty meters from the top, Sitwell's voice came through his earbud. _"Colonel Graham wants to know your status, Hawkeye."_

Of course he did. Not that the Colonel – or Sitwell – couldn’t have gotten their damn asses out of the air-conditioned Quonset hut the Army had set up as the C&C and look for themselves. 

Clint hooked his left hand through the netting and let go with his right to thumb open his throat mic, ignoring Keen's gasp and hurried movements in Clint's direction. As if Clint would lose his grasp, even with the netting now shaking from Keen throwing off their balance. Keen couldn't know how much of Clint's life he'd spent climbing and hanging from ladders so Clint appreciated the gesture, ridiculous and dangerous for Keen though it was. He still signaled for Keen to move back to his side, though he left it up to Keen as to whether he'd hold too, or continue climbing.

"Still hanging from the mountainside. Sir," he tacked on the last after a measurable pause. Since he and Sitwell were only here on Fury's insistence and the Army's reluctant sufferance, the two of them were stuck with using the Army's comm system. And stuck with the Army's penchant for needless protocol. Like Sirs.

Sure, he called Coulson that. Sometimes, and mainly just to fuck with him. In the middle of an op the sirs came naturally, but Clint couldn't wait until Coulson got his own code name as part of the Initiative. He'd been thinking up a few suitable –

_"Do you have an ETA?"_

When we're done and I'll call you, but Clint had to stifle the smart ass answers too.

"Probably another twenty or thirty minutes. Sir." Yes, he was padding the estimate, but Keen was sweating profusely and looking flushed. Once they reached the next ledge, Clint planned on insisting they take a five minute water break. Dehydration was a real concern in this part of Nevada, thanks to extremely low humidity. Heat exhaustion was also something to guard against in the June sun.

While Keen wore appropriate desert camo BDUs, he had dark hair and had neglected to wear some kind of protective hat to reflect the heat or even keep the sweat from his eyes. Clint's own uniform was a dark grey close enough to black that he should be having even more trouble, but SHIELD technology had come through again, and the material had had interesting cooling as well as thermal properties (properties that would make someone a fortune – another fortune – when the government gave up it's exclusive use of the patent). It also served as a form of body armor, with superior flexibility and stopping power to standard Kevlar. In his case, most of the sun's heat was being deflected instead of absorbed by the material, but that hadn't stopped the sweat from breaking out along the exposed portions of Clint's body. Or stop the dust and scratches from accumulating.

 _"Roger that,"_ Sitwell acknowledged. _"Be advised that the package is now thirty-five minutes out."_

At the initial situation meeting, they'd been assured that Blonsky was cooperating with the Army's plan, allowing himself to be sedated during his transfer and kept that way until the Army docs bought him around. Regardless, Clint needed to be in position before Blonsky arrived and was placed into his containment perimeter, so there was little time to dawdle. Or to continue with this stupid conversation.

"Roger and out," Clint told Sitwell. Sitwell's acknowledgement didn't require any response, so Clint reached back up for his next handhold and started climbing once more, ignoring Keen's groan this time beyond ensuring it was simple griping and not made from any real distress.

Including the water break, it took them twenty minutes to pull themselves to the top. Even Clint was feeling it as they crested the ridge, so he was pleasantly surprised to see that at least the Army boys had gotten this part right.

The vantage point was close enough to something he would have picked for himself had he been given the opportunity. Decent altitude and placement to start with, and some of the brush and dirt had been dug up to create a shallow resting spot free of the kind of things that could drive a sniper mad if he allowed himself to think about what he was laying on. Clint had handled worse, but it was a nice gesture even if it proved jarheads were tougher than grunts. (Or maybe it proved that grunts were smarter than jarheads.) 

He knelt down in the depression to check his sight lines, pleased to find that he had a full, unrestricted view of the entire base other than what lay behind the C&C building. Later in the afternoon, the shadows created by the mountain ridge snug behind the base camp would create more dead spots, but hopefully everything would be finished before that became a problem and, if not, it was undoubtedly why there were fifty foot high spotlights ranged around the perimeter.

The advance team had even set up a tarp twenty feet or so back from the ridgeline, shading what looked like some insulated packs and two jerry cans of water. Clint hoped they wouldn't be up here long enough to need such elaborate supplies, but no one knew how long it would take Blonsky to come out of sedation, and better safe than sorry.

Given that they did have a resupply of  water, Clint set down his weapons case before emptying the remains of his second bottle over his head and neck, not bother to wipe away any of the excess even though he'd brought a bandana to keep the dust from his mouth if the wind picked up. No doubt even his hair would be dry within minutes.

He then pulled the rifle out to start sighting particulars on the field below, noting the landmarks and fixing the various height comparisons in his mind. The Army had picked a flat, old lakebed for their secret camp, the ground long dried to dust. Foothills surrounded it to the east and west, not quite a box canyon, but further north of the camp another set of ridges stood sentinel. The remains of an old river bed had been turned into something like a road that Clint wouldn't like to travel during the monsoon season for fear of sudden flash flooding.

Clint's post was set up in the southern end of the western mountain range. The paved road he and Sitwell had traveled to reach the others snaked almost due south, eventually reaching Groom Lake, Area 51 and the rest of the various military testing and proving grounds. Since Area 51 was restricted access only and the airspace above was off-limits, security checks had been performed back there. Very few people even knew the Army had retained this area as their own when they'd mostly pulled operations out of Nevada, but then, black ops agencies had to have their own secret playgrounds. (SHIELD's was in New Mexico, even before Thor's hammer had fallen to Earth.)

This camp was set up much more simply than SHIELD's, with only two structures: the C&C off to the west and the containment area snugged up against the mountains framing the eastern side of the lakebed. A motor pool had been set up near the narrowest part of the canyon to the south, while tents and tarps were stretched out across the northern part of the lake bed for the men to bivouac, with the largest tent obviously the DFAC. Useful to know, but the thing Clint was most interested in checking out was the containment perimeter. (He and Sitwell had arrived only a half an hour before Clint had been sent out, with no time to investigate anything.)

According to the specs Sitwell had been given, seven meter high security barriers formed an enclosure only five by five meters (to prevent Blonsky from getting a running start should he try to break out). The Army had fudged a bit in the actual layout, setting the barriers (thick steel posts) that were supposed to be spaced half a meter apart nearer to three quarters of a meter wide in most cases, and actually nearer a full meter in a few. So it was more like an eight by seven meter perimeter. Still, the gaps between the barriers should be too narrow for Blonsky in his creature form to fit through, even if there hadn't been high tensile wire carrying an undisclosed number of volts in the mid-to-high thousands range strung between each post.

(Lethal, no doubt, for mere humans, but then Blonsky wasn't that anymore and Clint wasn't sure he wanted to know how the Army knew what voltage it took to stop Blonsky now. Considering the Army boys were only carrying tasers and stock prods, they must know something he didn't. He hoped so, at least.)

"Shit, man, your shot's going to be almost a mile and a quarter," Keen exclaimed from behind Clint.

Which only made him twitch a little.

"The record holder is only eighty-one hundred and some feet. Are you sure you can –"

"Just like shooting womp rats back home," Clint misquoted with a smile back over his shoulder to reassure the kid. And place exactly where Keen was standing, since the kid was good enough in moving that Clint hadn't heard him approach from where he'd been checking out their provisions.

Clint could – had – made longer shots, though his never made it into the record books. This shot was certainly within his comfort range, other than he'd be using a modified rifle, with specialty bullets he'd never tried before.

For a moment he wondered if the Army had set all this up specifically for him to fail. For SHIELD to fail. No one seemed to want Blonsky in the Avengers Initiative except for the World Security Council, and Clint wouldn't put it past the Army to be looking for a little payback against SHIELD for having sent Stark in to talk to Ross about Blonsky in the first place. On the other hand, he doubted even Ross held enough of a grudge to purposely sabotage the field test and endanger his own men, since Clint would only fail if Blonsky got out of hand.

Speaking of… He opened up his throat mic again. "Hawkeye in position."

 _"Roger,"_ Sitwell answered, and at least they had that. Although this was the Army's party, Clint's orders were supposed to come from one of his own, not that they weren't already clear going into this. If Blonsky got out of control, Clint was there to put him down. Non-lethally according to the Army. By whatever means necessary, had been the order from Fury. The whole reason to do this in the middle of Nowhere, Nevada (aside from the utter secrecy) was to insure that nothing like Harlem happened again. Or for Blonsky to escape like Banner had, even if Banner had only run away and hid while trying to cope with his changed circumstances.

_"Standby."_

Clint's job amounted to hurry up and wait all too often, so he had a routine. Unfortunately, Keen did not, and once more he was turning into a Chatty Cathy, asking Clint about the shots he'd taken before, where he had served. At least Keen didn't go quite so far as to ask Clint for his body count, but given that silence and secrecy weren't really operational necessities right now, Clint couldn't ignore him without coming off as an asshole again. It could also end up being a long day and getting through it while pissed off at his partner could be a bitch. That didn't stop him from giving terse, one word answers in the hope Keen would catch a clue and change topics. Though when he did and asked how Clint came to work for SHIELD and whether the agency was hiring, that wasn't much better.

"Above my paygrade, Keen," he answered, then had to laugh at himself for his irritation. If it had been Coulson as his handler instead of Sitwell on this op, Clint would suspect he'd been stuck with Keen intentionally. Since, if Coulson _had_ been here, _Clint_ would be the one coming up with inane questions to wile away the boredom of waiting for something to happen.

Sitwell's sitrep on the ETA for Blonsky's arrival came and went, as did another hour with no further word than a steady, "Standby," from Sitwell every fifteen minutes. Keen gave up trying to keep a conversation going and had wandered back to rest under the tarp, but not before reassuring Clint that he'd be back at his side once the truck was spotted.

Once alone, Clint put Keen, Sitwell's check-ins, the overdue truck, and everything else he didn't have any control over out of his mind. He pulled his bow and quiver from the case, pulled out and equipped himself with his bracer too. He forewent his finger guard though, instead changing out his climbing gloves for shooters. He'd packed only five arrows so as not to give the Army any reason to suspect (each eye, throat and two to the heart, just in case). Having his own weapon ready made Clint feel better, safer, and he rested both the bow and the quiver in the shallow to his left for greater ease should he need switch weapons. He then picked up the 50 cal rifle and field-stripped it, cleaning each component piece and fitting it back together a couple of times until he was sure of the action and reasonably confident of the reliability.

Reasonably confident was not the same as fully confident, however. He'd been using the single shot M99 as his rifle of choice for years now (when his targets needed bullets instead of arrows), while this was a semi-automatic XM500, the successor to the M82 he'd first used as a Marine. The Army had also only given him that single, 10 shot magazine. He popped out the bullets, checking the shells and casings for flaws, cracks or nicks. To the casual eye they looked like typical rounds, same basic shape and length. Even the weight was close to standard JHP, with the liquid sedative taking the place of the interior lead, or maybe a little lighter.

"Sitwell, I'm going to be taking a couple practice shots northwest of your position with the Army gun. Make sure the guys on the ground don't get spooked."

 _"Each tranquilizer bullet costs somewhere in the range of fifteen hundred dollars, son,"_ someone other than Sitwell replied. _"Is this really necessary?"_

"Sir, this rifle is not my usual make, and I have not tested this particular model. It's worth at least one target round to insure I can compensate for the… modifications." Wouldn’t do to accuse the Army of handing off a flawed or inferior weapon.

The pause that followed probably meant some off mic conferring was going on.

 _"Negative on any unnecessary shooting,"_ a third voice answered him.

 _"General!"_ the original not Sitwell voice responded before Clint could.

The good news was that most likely that meant that the truck with Blonsky was finally only minutes out. The bad news was that the exclaimed 'General' undoubtedly meant the new guy was General Thaddeus E. "Thunderbolt" Ross, the guy who'd been in charge of the revised super-soldier serum project in the first place and the one who's orders had inadvertently produced both Banner and Blonsky's mutations. Undoubtedly, Ross was desperate to prove his value in exchange for the faith in him he'd been shown by _his_ superiors. In Clint's experience, desperate men made bad calls.

Like refusing to let him test his weapon.

Clint was tempted to fire anyway, it wasn't like Ross was actually on site yet, nor that the Army could replace Clint without postponing the test and reworking everything; his nest was far enough away that only a few very well-trained snipers could make the shot. He could always claim he hadn't heard Ross' order –

 _"As you say, General,"_ Sitwell then answered, putting Clint on the spot of bucking him too if he fired. Not to mention getting Sitwell into trouble for not being able to control his man, as was no doubt Sitwell's intention in speaking up, since Clint had no trouble flirting with an insubordination charge as long as his was the only career threatened.

_"The base is ready for your arrival, General Ross."_

Clint kept his mouth shut and instead lifted the rifle to focus on the dust trail he could now make off in the distant north. Ross was coming in through that gulley trail. Soon enough he could make out a standard Army truck, one of the larger troop transports, bouncing over the hard dirt. It eventually skirted west around the Quonset hut before coming to a stop midway between the C&C and the containment area on the southern side of the camp. It parked with the back perpendicular to Clint's position, giving him the proper target once they off loaded Blonsky.

The driver and his passengers disembarked first, two more men beyond the driver, the tallest of them moving around to the front of the truck to meet with Sitwell and his Army counterpart as they came out of the hut. Clint shifted his scope to get a proper look at Ross, smiling to himself when Ross chose to turn and look up in his direction about the same time, not that Ross could know that Clint had him in his sights. Or maybe the man did; he'd gotten his promotions through front line deployments and grit, from what Clint understood; not just political savvy or connections.

 _"Our men have tested the equipment as well as your position, Hawkeye,"_ Ross then spoke to Clint directly. _"And Colonel Fury has assured me that you're the man to make the shot. Was he wrong?"_

In another time, Clint had no doubt 'boy' would have ended Ross's not so veiled challenge; the man also had a reputation for arrogance that rivaled Stark's. Or Fury's.

"Negative, sir," Clint answered back in the voice the Marines thought they had given him.

They hadn't. He'd learned it first under his father's fists, then had been given the name – insouciance, _brat_ – by his and Barney's first case workers after their parents' death. In the orphanage, Clint had learned the mask to go with it and, in the circus, he'd discovered you only had to appear to capitulate, that most grown ups were too busy or too self-centered to care whether you meant it, as long as you did back down. Only Jacques and Clint's second CO had figured it out (Barney didn't count, since Barney had his own coping techniques), and only Phil Coulson had cared enough to call him on it (Coulson's punishments were much more subtle and never physical).

SHIELD's chain of command was Fury, followed by Coulson and Hill, then everyone else, as far as Clint was concerned. He and Tasha answered only to those top three, though they did sometimes listen to whoever was assigned to shepherd the op. (There were reasons Coulson was generally their handler and not always that he and Tash were _Coulson's_ pick for operatives. Though they probably were.) On a Coulson op, Clint could mouth off all he wanted, could ignore the other Suits as long as he got results, but he'd also been made aware of the consequences, be it being sent on a solo op in Siberia, stuck on desk duty for _weeks_ , or out the door if the transgression was bad enough; no trial, no second chances. He knew the line he couldn't cross and, even better, trusted that Coulson, Fury and Hill knew the line too. He also trusted them to make the right calls, which is why SHIELD had become the home he'd been seeking when nothing else had.

Ross' line was undoubtedly as wide as the camp's canyon.

 _"Unload the truck,"_ Ross ordered his men, obviously dismissing Clint without another thought.

It was Sitwell's turn to look up in Clint's direction, making a hand movement toward the back of the vehicle as if he'd also known where Clint's scope had been pointed during the exchange. Since Clint liked Sitwell he simply pressed his mic to give a short squelch of acknowledgement, order received, and focused his mind back on his current job.

The gate on the back of the truck was removed and a ramp slid down to thud softly into the lakebed, sending up a puff of dirt. Two soldiers then hurried up into the truck. Whatever they needed to do took a couple of minutes. One of them finally jumped back down, eschewing the ramp, but that was likely because his partner and another soldier were now started down, moving slowly with their hands wrapped behind their backs. Another couple of seconds showed why; the edge of a wheeled flatbed trailer poked through. The first soldiers were handling the speed while three more to each side of the trailer took care of the weight and momentum and one more in back controlled the steering. They were using the trailer as a gurney and its cargo was a lump – a huge lump – of green scales.

Doctor Emil Blonsky. All seven feet and ton of him – now – curled up like a kitten. Or baby dragon. Crocosaurus?

(Nah, the SciFi channel would have made even something like this look cheesier.)

"Holy shit!" Keen remarked, once more at Clint's side, his eyes glued through his own scope. "He looks like a fucking dinosaur. Like that American version of Godzilla."

Not even that, though it took Clint a few seconds to figure it out. "He's like the Tyrant R mutant from the _Resident Evil_ games, without the massive claws but with pointed ears." And now that he thought about it, there were too many damn similarities to the Umbrella Corp in those games and Ross' version of the Super-Soldier program, right down to the monsters no one meant to create. If Clint didn't think that Tony Stark had much better things to do with his time and self-proclaimed genius, he would have guessed Stark had taken some time off from his drinking, carousing and inventing, to develop video games extrapolated from his father's own science gone weird.

And the WSC wanted Blonsky as part of the Avenger's Initiative.

Clint decided to blame his viscerally negative reaction to Blonsky on too many years of playing Resident Evil and its imitators, killing pretend abominations just like the real one in front of him. He normally didn't consider himself prejudiced, especially against anyone's looks; he'd grown up in a circus, after all, and some of the best people he'd known had been those the rest of humanity called freaks in the worst possible connotation of the word.

Freak was too mild for Blonsky, though. Monster – _abomination_ – fit him pretty damn well. Clint could now see why Coulson (and Fury) had been so dead set against Blonsky's inclusion to the program. Getting the public to accept the Avengers as a super-powered, special ops team was going to be hard enough despite iconic heroes like Iron Man and Captain America running the show. Even if Blonsky had the disposition of a teddy bear (which the Harlem footage clearly contra-indicated), he'd always be feared.

Unless the eggheads _were_ right, and yet another injection of the serum would mutate his genes and give Blonsky the ability to retain his human appearance at will. As Banner supposedly could.

A couple of those eggheads now followed the trailer out of the truck, and Clint had to give them props for riding in the back with Blonsky, even if the guy had been sedated. Clint wasn't sure he'd have handled such close proximity as calmly, but then those guys in the coats were also undoubtedly fascinated by the subject, the kind of scientists who detached from their own humanity in the face of such a fascinating mishap. SHIELD had a few of them like that too, geniuses who thought anything was worth picking apart and putting back together _different_ just to see what might happen. Clint rather thought tinkering so callously with people's DNA was one of those line he himself couldn't cross, especially given the sixty-six percent failure rate of this particular experiment.

But decisions like that were above Clint's pay grade, and he was here to contain Blonsky if something went wrong, not to judge him or make friends. His job was to keep Blonsky in his sights, from arrival until the test was successfully administered and Blonsky changed back into something more human appearing. Just minutes – or more likely hours – from now. Worrying about Blonsky's or anyone else's future wasn't going to get him through that.

"I have the target," he advised Sitwell, Ross, and anyone else listening in, then let go of the rest.

 _"Acknowledged,"_ Sitwell replied.

This was the part of the job that Clint handled best, dropping into the mindspace that let him lay for hours in one place without being distracted. He didn't so much shut out as open up, immersing himself into his environment where any noise from Keen or Sitwell was simply input to be weighed and used or discarded as irrelevant, no different than the buzzing of the insects around them or the distant calls of the targets down below. The sun's heat called for no more acknowledgement than the grit under him as he lay out behind his rifle, nor the occasional breeze that swirled dust devils from the ground up into the air. Sun and wind only meant shadows and something to correct for, just like compensating for the sweat pooling at his collar and against his wrists before being absorbed by his gloves. He could – and had – spent days like this, putting the rest of the world on hold and ignoring his body's craving for movement, food, or even sleep except in the bare minimum. Afterward he might need a few days to recover, but this wasn't supposed to be that kind of mission, and he almost liked the desert when the people around him weren't also trying to kill him. It was certainly more peaceful than doing this in an urban environment.

No enemy combatants or clueless civilians here, though. Just Thunderbolt Ross, who for some reason was keeping his own comm on the general channel and booming out orders that had nothing to do with Clint, but still serving to pull him out of his proper headspace just in case one of them was suddenly directed his way. Coulson would have called the General on it, or simply told Clint to shift to a different frequency, but Sitwell didn't yet have enough flair, experience, or confidence to tell the dickheads that might also be generals (or presidents or warlords) that they were being dickheads. And Clint was just the dumb sniper, just another one of the grunt assets to be used by Ross, not one to be listened to.

Clint could manage, of course, had never missed a shot due to negligence or distraction. It made him jittery, though, kept him too aware of the judgment he was rendering, even when it was someone else making the call for him to take the shot. Tasha (and sometimes Coulson – most of the time Coulson) was the only partner whose presence never reminded him, intentionally or not, that he was little more than a useful tool for them – just another weapon. For Tasha, every kill was personal, which made it personal to him too. Personal and necessary, and what he did while working with her never gave him nightmares or bouts of second-guessing. Of course, too often the ops themselves did that, but never the results.

This one had headaches written all over it, not nightmares, and too much introspection instead of second-guessing. Clint found himself glad when Ross next thundered over his egghead's cautions, pointing out they'd already had Blonsky to study in his sedated form for three days, and why in the hell did they need more time? He watched as the soldiers rolled Blonsky into the containment area, watched the same soldiers move back out quickly, except for the one staying with the lead doc. It was the doc's task to administer the sedative's counter-agent, directly into Blonsky's mouth since it appeared that his scaly skin was too tough for even the kind of needle used on zoo animals like hippos or rhinos. Then they backed out too, and everyone was left waiting for the injection to take affect.

If Blonsky had already given Ross and docs consent to sedate him and bring him around chemically, Clint didn't understand why they'd then decided Blonsky needed to be awake and aware before they did the same thing with the serum injection. He supposed there might be an interaction issue; that the initial drugs had to be dissipated in his system before they added the new one. Or maybe it was simply that Ross wanted to have time to eat lunch before anything else happened, since once the General was satisfied that everyone was dancing to his tune, he dismissed Sitwell back to the C&C, and dragged his Colonel off to the DFAC.

Clint let himself breathe a little easier after that; Ross managed to remember he was still on comms, his own obviously voice-activated given the start of the conversation he wanted with the Colonel that he either then disconnected his equipment from, or changed frequencies to a private channel. Clint let Keen replenished his water bottles and bring him some of the light tack they'd been provided with for their own lunch, but didn't otherwise move from his position. At the start of the next hour, Clint worked on contracting each of his major muscle groups in long ingrained isometrics, hiding his smirk when Keen finally brought out a well worn paperback book from one of his own many pockets and settle down to read the third Harry Potter novel.

At the bottom of the hour, Ross reappeared and the Colonel took Sitwell's place in the C&C. Blonsky started showing signs of movement minutes after Ross placed his ass on the back end of one of the jeeps he'd called up, motioning Sitwell to join him and leaving Clint to conclude this wasn't the first time Ross had been on hand when Blonsky was coming out of sedation.

Clint also concluded that the jeep and its driver were there to get Ross out of danger if things went to shit. Sitwell never would have done such on his own, not because of Clint personally, but SHIELD agents generally didn't abandon one another and never _planned_ for it. Clint wasn't all that disturbed. One of them would need to get the word back to Fury if things did end up going to shit, and Clint's secondary purpose in any op was to provide back-up and cover fire so someone else could do just that. His own chances for getting back to Area 51, on foot if necessary, were certainly better than Sitwell's, as was his training to hang on where he was if he couldn’t make it out to wait for a recovery team.

Fifteen or so more minutes passed before Blonsky sat upright with a start, startling most of his watchers to the point where some of them jumped and more than one of them squeaked. Ross hopped down from the jeep then and approached, bringing his lead egghead with him but not Sitwell. Clint couldn't make out any of the conversation they started in on, as only Blonsky's face was visible and trying to lip read someone with foot long lips was impossible through his scope. The gist became obvious, though, when the doc pulled out a different injection gun and carefully thread it through one of the gaps in the security grid to Blonsky himself before scurrying back to his fellow scientists. Ross stayed for a few more words and minutes, then returned to the jeep.

 _"Be advised that the test will commence in two minutes,"_ Sitwell warned over the comms, his still set to the general channel given how the guards on duty suddenly snapped up their own weapons and formed something of a barricade between Blonsky and Ross' jeep.

The soldiers who'd come out to set up the camp had numbered no more than ten, with nine more arriving with Ross. Twenty guys (no women in Ross' part of the Army) to stop the monster that Banner as The Hulk had had trouble stopping. Twenty guys with non-lethal weapons only, although Clint was pretty sure both Ross and his Colonel were carrying Desert Eagles in their holsters. He hoped to god Sitwell was carrying something with the same kind of stopping power despite the orders to surrender such, though he also had real doubts simple bullets would do more than make Blonsky mad. If he thought about it, he'd wondered about his own ammunition, but that way led to freezing at a critical moment (and Clint hadn't done that since he was seven or maybe eight), so he didn't think about it.

Instead he narrowed his focus to strictly Blonsky again, barely aware of Keen taking his place hunkered down next to him until the kid started softly calling out wind speeds and direction every fifteen seconds. Clint's hands twitched to take up his bow, but even he couldn't make a shot nearly four times longer than the world's record (not until Stark worked up some of those ballistic arrows he kept promising SHIELD he'd look into). Shooting a moving target through a meter wide gap with a stationary rifle wasn't going to work though and while standing up and holding a twenty-six pound rifle would get tiresome if he held it thusly for hours, he spent hours daily drawing a seventy-five pound bow weight and could hold it for minutes (in the rain), not just the standard ten or twelve seconds. If Blonsky didn't go crazy in the first few minutes after he injected himself, Clint would rethink a long term strategy.

Keen seemed to realize the problem and rose with him, moving to stand three feet to Clint's right, and trying to keep himself on the same plane that Clint kept to the ridgeline so his calculations would need only a simple adjustment. Together they watched Blonsky self deliver the injection into his mouth, and even Clint had to whistle at the balls that took as it looked like Blonsky had gone up through his soft palate with it. Blonsky then dropped the gun, and dropped his body onto the edge of the trailer bed, drumming his fingers on the metal and then dipping over to pick the gun back up.

For a few seconds he just looked at it, or was looking at the scales on the back of his hand that didn't give any indication of changing.

"What's everyone else doing?" Clint finally asked Keen, keeping his focus on his target but beginning to wonder if anyone was giving a reaction that might indicate how long this… nothing was going to go on.

"General Ross looks… annoyed, sir. And your guy simply looks bored. The eggheads are twitching and gesturing amongst themselves, obviously talking about what they're observing, and one or two of the guards on attention are easing up. I expect someone's going to get his ass chewed out if they relax too much."

Clint suspected Keen was right, and that Ross would take great pleasure in reaming them new ones. Hell, Clint would too if they were his men, although he preferred stealth attacks that made junior agents pee in their pants if he'd caught them losing focus on an op, not dressing downs. In this moment he really missed Coulson, since he could actually point that out if the other man was here and either make Coulson's eye twitch, or that one corner of his mouth lift that said he sometimes approved of Clint's methods. Unofficially, of course.

(Not the Coulson was any easier on junior – or senior – agents acting stupidly.)

"Wonder who will blink first," Clint did say, because he had to say something, and Keen was proving to be an alright kind of guy.

"Me," Keen said with a self-deprecating laugh. "I've got to take a piss."

"Don't let me stop – "

Blonsky did, or rather didn't, from the sudden acrid smell, but Clint didn't blame Keen. One second Blonsky was simply holding the injection gun and in the next breath it was sailing through the security perimeter, through the guards standing in front of him and impacting against the driver idling the jeep for Ross, not that Clint made the mistake of changing his focus to watch. Three things happened then, the driver screamed and slumped over, the jeep began accelerating forward (both of which Clint could hear), and Clint fired his first shot even before Sitwell's shit-scared tone gave him the go ahead.

While Clint was sure he hadn't missed, it didn't seem to matter. Blonsky was still moving, sliding down from the trailer to the dirt when Clint's second shot hit him. He tossed that one off too, then tossed the multi-ton trailer against the nearest security barriers like it was made of balsa wood, and incidentally providing himself cover from Clint's next shot until the trailer connected and shorted the field, scattering arcs of current that sent most of the remaining guards and all of the scientists fleeing.

Fuck, fuck, fuck was going through Clint's mind, and spilling from Keen's lips. Blonsky simply leapt over the still sputtering fence, landing in front of Ross' jeep and stopping it cold. With a casual down swipe of his hand he flipped its passengers out like rag dolls. Another swipe behind him dropped the nearest soldiers like the proverbial puppets whose strings got cut. Clint pumped in shots four and five, which did nothing more than one and two (or the blocked number three), they certainly did not stop Blonsky from tearing off the jeep's front hood and flinging it like a Frisbee into the opening door and the soldiers exiting out of the Quonset hut.

Clint was pretty sure he wasn't the only one firing at Blonsky now, but most of the rallying soldiers had only their fucking tasers and if fifty cals were barely penetrating…

Only Clint's bullets had made some sort of impact, because suddenly Blonsky turned his direction and let out a roar of challenge.

Fuck was simply not a strong enough word. Clint rapid fired the remaining rounds in the magazine as Blonsky stomped and fucking leapt in a standing broad jump that closed the mile of distance between them in seconds. A simple hundred meter vertical jump wasn't going to stop him, but his having to take a couple of steps backward before his next leap in order not to overshoot Clint's position gave Clint time to drop his rifle and dive for his bow.

He yelled for Keen to run, hoped the kid wasn't paralyzed in his fear or stupidly trying to hold his ground as if he could do anything. One guy in hiding shouldn't poise any threat to Blonsky, not if Clint kept him distracted.

Keeping Blonsky distracted was Clint's job and he had five arrows to do it; eyes, throat and heart. Which is what he should have done with the bullets too, at least aimed for the eyes and to hell with Ross wanting to keep his pet intact for future use. That boat had obviously sailed, along with Blonsky's 'higher' intellect. Or maybe he was all there and just really, really pissed off at Ross and everyone else associated with the project that had obviously failed once more.

Clint got two arrows off, both aimed for the same eye when the first was merely swiped away with a trail of ichor but didn't seem to affect Blonsky's charge. His fingers might not have the scythes the Resident Evil tyrant had, but he didn't need them and his first swipe sent Clint flying. Something crunched and his shoulder dislocated, causing his next arrow to fall as he abruptly lost feeling in his grip.

That was going to be a problem. Clint had no chance against Blonsky in close quarters. No chance to run either, given Blonsky could leap a mile at a time. There was one way to get distance, though, not that it wasn't without its risks, and Clint would still need to make another shot to give himself the opportunity to try.

Convincing his arm to move and pushing past the pain to make not even half his normal draw sent black spots crowding out Clint's own vision. His target was as big as a vertical semi, though, with instincts like any other predator when his prey didn't back down.

Blonsky roared.

Clint aimed at the sound. He let out his own yell and rolled to his feet despite the agony of doing so. Blinking to watch his shaft fly right down Blonsky's gullet, Clint doubted he'd actually _hurt_ Blonsky, that the creature wouldn’t just shake it off, but it did make him pause while he choked. This time his bellow was from pain, not challenge. Clint ran then, not toward or away from Blonsky, but toward the cliff face.

As he leapt, he twisted in a motion once part of his daily life and still part of his extended training routine, positioning himself to get off his final two arrows. Hitting his target didn't matter as much as enraging Blonsky to follow, to _lunge_. While Clint had little faith the fall would kill Blonsky either, he hoped that there was enough humanity left in Blonsky's brain that he'd panic and not immediately figure out a way to arrest his drop. Having the weight of his own body slamming him into the ground might be enough to daze Blonsky. Clint had also shot enough sedatives into him to bring down even Godzilla; maybe impact would daze him long enough for them to kick in.

The final part of Clint's plan called for him to stop his own drop, which was just as problematic for him as for Blonsky despite not panicking. Although he was ambidextrous doing most things, his left hand was still his dominant one, so was the arm instinct caused him to reach out with as he twisted again and clawed for the cargo net as he dropped. He felt it, but couldn't maintain his hold with numbed fingers. Second choice meant dropping his bow which he did. Reaching this time with his right hand, he was successful, though stopping his own body weight with a fist didn't do his good shoulder any favors. Nor did slamming the rest of his body into the mountain when his feet failed to find purchase. He'd nearly taken too long and was almost at the netting's end.

His body armor protected him from the worst of the crash, even prevented him from acquiring any more broken bones, but something in his knee shifted when he bounced. The new pain convulsed Clint's body, sending him falling again. At least he had enough presence of mind to realize he'd slowed his momentum enough. That the nearest section of ground was only a few feet below him and the landing shouldn't kill him since, if there was one thing he'd retained from his childhood even more ingrained than his shooting ability, it was falling – landing – without breaking his neck or his skull. 

It still wasn't going to be pleasant. He had a moment's worry that, after all of this, he might not have stopped Blonsky or protected anyone. Which led him to decide that he was glad that Coulson hadn’t come on this op (not that he wasn't hoping Sitwell was somehow still alive). There was also Coulson's and Fury's wish to keep Blonsky out of the Initiative, which would now probably come true.

Those thoughts were enough to grant him peace, even if he'd fucked up everything else.

Only he didn't. Hadn't. He hit ground, rolled, felt something else snap and, yeah, he ended up on his stomach swallowing dirt, but that was okay. He could breathe. And when he turn his head enough, he could see Blonsky sprawled twenty or so meters below him, breathing but definitely not moving.

Good enough.

************

Phil Coulson was already well aware of how impressed Tony Stark was with his own genius. The man would be utterly unbearable had he not been as smart as he thought he was. Even Phil had to acknowledge it, though he would never admit it to the man's face, going only so far as to admit to admiring some of the fruits of Stark's genius. (Like the style and the cut of the uniform Phil would take to wearing if the Initiative ever actually came into being, and the not always lethal options Stark was working on as weapons for Agent Romanoff, based on her codename: Black Widow.) Today's tour into the mysterious and sometimes insane functions of Stark's mind was proving interesting, despite Stark's penchant for showboating, and the obviousness that he was holding out the very best for the very last, which wasn't scheduled until tomorrow. It was proving tedious, too, or Phil was just growing tired of Stark's grandstanding (and didn't that bode well for the time they would end up working together).

It didn't help that Stark knew Phil had little use for him (beyond the obvious), that Stark liked to goad entirely too much like Barton in an attempt to get Phil to crack, only Stark's tactics were normally based on pique, spite and ego, while Barton simply thought it was fun. Stark had only ever seen Phil unflappable, so Stark had to be the one who got Phil to blink.

That Barton already had, but not in the manner even he suspected, was something Phil couldn't regret, even if he never intended to act upon it. Workplace relationships rarely worked, and what the two of them had now was safer, provided a source of amusement for the both of them, and was enough to hold against the time Barton moved on in one fashion or the other.

Stark was on his better behavior this time around, not because of any sort of détente, of course, but because Phil wasn't his only captive subject forced to listen to him stroke his own ego. Today's gadgets were mostly multi-purpose, for use by agencies in addition to SHIELD, so there was a mix of military brass and civilian counterparts, and not just Americans. Stark Industries might have gotten out of the weapons business (except for a few noted exceptions that were mostly personal projects), but there was no denying the company's tech and toys were superior to most everything else out there, and highly sought after. SHIELD was not about to be left out because of a few personality quirks.

That still didn't mean that Phil was particularly listening; Ms. Potts would be providing everyone with the specs and technical details of what was being offered today, and Phil preferred reading to listening, even when the speaker wasn't Tony Stark. In lieu of actually getting some hands on opportunities with the tech Stark was presenting (again, scheduled for tomorrow), Coulson was currently contemplating which of his fellow supplicants to the alter of Stark might be enemy plants. Or were likely to become tools of SHIELD's enemies sometime in the future.

None of them the former, or so he certainly hoped, though one and maybe even two was more likely the accurate answer (no one's screening process was infallible, not even SHIELD's). Even if he was wrong and everyone was on the up and up, testing these waters was always an interesting and useful way to pass the time. Part of his job for Fury and SHIELD entailed evaluating potential threats, whether past, present or future. Divining certain people's weaknesses and strengths might ultimately prove unnecessary, but if that changed, any advance intel could be the difference between success and failure.

Determining that the German Technology Minister was only too self-important, not a mole from HYDRA, it took Phil an extra second to realize that Stark had cut himself off mid word. In the subsequent silence, Phil could now hear the steady tap of footsteps, a woman's, and while Phil was reasonably certain that Stark wouldn’t interrupt his own show to greet a bevy of Vegas Dancers (not after that first time), he didn't bother craning his neck around like the rest of those around him, more interested in Stark's momentary look of consternation and something that was almost trepidation before his typical smug expression returned. Ms. Potts then, Stark's assistant and now Stark Industries CEO. One of a handful of people that Stark truly did fear – if only of disappointing her one day beyond what she'd forgive.

Also one of a handful of people whose sudden presence meant something significant had arisen, as she was paid very well to make sure that no one interrupted Stark while he was making money.

Phil still didn't turn to watch her approach; he had great respect for Pepper Potts (and took great pleasure in watching Stark squirm). Only her footsteps weren't continuing to move in Stark's direction, instead becoming louder, closer to Phil himself.

Damn.

Ignoring the speculative mutterings going on around him (and Stark's new expression of pique when Pepper ignored him), Phil turned to greet her, automatically stepping away from the crowd. She gave him a grave smile and a nod of confirmation, before turning back to the others.

"My apologies, ladies and gentlemen, but there will be a short break in your presentation. We have coffee and snacks being set up in an adjacent room, along with samples of some of the items Mr. Stark has been telling you about for your inspection. If you would follow Ms. Huntington-Smythe?" She then gestured to the young woman and two security guards who entered into the warehouse from one of the side doors.

Phil wasn't surprised to see that Stark followed after him instead of his adoring crowd. He wasn't pleased, either. But this was Stark's playground and assistant, and given that only Nick Fury would have bothered to pull Phil from the briefing, Stark's presence might become useful. If for no other reason that interceding on Phil's behalf with Colonel Rhodes and getting Phil transport on one of the Air Force's Gulfstreams – or an F-15 if Phil was needed back in New York yesterday. (Phil hated riding as the Guy-In Back, but he'd done it enough that he no longer lost his breakfast.)

Pepper led them into one of the side offices, doing something arcane with the phone system before nodding for Coulson to pick up the land line. (SHIELD cell phones were state of the art, but full-proof encryption was hard to come by while on an Air Force base that housed the best decryption equipment Stark or anyone else had ever developed. Another measure of how serious the situation was; neither Fury nor Pepper were taking a chance for the call to be intercepted.)

"Coulson."

 _"The Blonsky situation had gone FUBAR. Someone hit the panic button in Nevada but then was cut off,"_ Fury started in with no preamble. _"I need your ass on site immediately to assess the damage and start recovery procedures. A response team is on its way from Area 51 with one of the containment units Stark whipped up to stop him the first time, and I've put Air Command in Tonopah on alert to assist with casualties."_

Assuming there is anyone left to rescue, but Phil didn't bring that up and Fury didn't say anything about Sitwell or Barton's status. Phil closed his eyes for a few seconds, though, to prioritize things in his head. "SHIELD will be taking over permanent custody of Blonsky, then?"

That name got Stark's attention. He turned to Pepper to conduct his own quiet conversation, one that Phil tuned out; her security clearance was as high as Stark's, given she would in essence become the face of Stark Industries to the rest of the world when the Avengers Initiative got underway. A certain amount of trust and latitude had been necessary to insure Stark's cooperation. Pepper was easier to work with anyway.

_"The WSC isn't happy about it, but even they see there is little other choice if their grand experiment failed. That's part of what you'll be evaluating."_

Phil nodded, a habit of responding as if Fury was in front of him despite too many years of conversation just like this, with Phil on site at the hotspot (or on his way), and Fury back at HQ masterminding SHIELD's responses. "The Vault?" he asked.

_"I've been assured its close enough to ready. Take Stark with you. You might need the suit."_

Reluctantly, Phil had been thinking the same thing. They didn't have Banner this time to help control Blonsky. "Agreed," though Phil was talking to a dial tone before he finished the word. He gathered his composure and turned to face Stark.

"Mr. Stark – "

"I've got Rhodey warming up the Quinjet. Where do we need to go?"

"Quinjet?" Phil stalled, not quite ready for a cooperative Stark.

He got the trademarked grin in return. "The big surprise at the end, just for SHIELD's eyes. I contracted with Wakanda to get a couple of their new aircraft and made some personal modifications, equipping one with a truncated JARVIS. It seats ten, has VTOL capabilities, and a cruising speed just shy of Mach 2. If your Avengers are going to be useful, we'll need a way to get around without going through airport security checks."

No doubt if SHIELD turned it down, it would simply be turned into another Stark party plane. Phil wasn't about to turn it down for this mission, not even if it did mean he'd owe Stark a future favor. (If nothing else, Stark stuck his foot into it often enough that Phil was certain he'd be paying back the favor before a couple of months were through – with the press, the President, or some foreign dignitary.)

"Thank you. Please request Colonel Rhodes bring the War Machine armor along too." Phil then turned to Pepper, "Ms. Potts, I'm sure you already have a cover story ready for Mr. Stark's absence?" He asked it as a question, but he already knew the answer; really the wrong person was coming to work with SHIELD. His own disappearance might be noted by a few of the foreign players, but those who knew he worked for SHIELD, also knew Phil was always at the beck and call of Director Fury.

"Yes, of course," she nodded. "I make Tony save a few toys for last to use as a distraction, if nothing else. He won't be missed after I show them the new facial recognition app for their phones."

Another thing Phil liked about Pepper is she never asked him difficult questions, even when he was commandeering her boss. He had little doubt that Stark told her about things she had no _need_ to know, but by her non-reaction to Blonsky's name, the past situation in Harlem had not been given in detail. She knew enough to recognize the importance to Phil and Stark and to recognize that perhaps she didn't want to know more. At least not until Stark came back safe and sound.

Instead, she started shooing the two of them from the office. "Happy is already waiting for you outside, back entrance, boss, next to the first roll up door," she corrected Stark when he turned toward the front of the warehouse. "I'll call Rhodey about the armor, though I imagine he's already taken it with him if you've called for using the Quinjet before you got your chance to show it off."

Happy Hogan was Stark's most trusted confident and driver, another one of Stark's right hands like Pepper, and someone SHIELD had cleared within an inch of his life. It was refreshing not to have to sweep for bugs or couch his words as they were driven off.

"We're needed eighty-three miles north of Groom Lake in Nevada," he told Stark. "I've got the exact GPS coordinates and will give you the authorization code to load accurate topographical maps of the area. Ross thought his people had figured out a way to allow Blonsky to change his form as Banner can, but something has gone wrong. We don't know the extent of the trouble despite having observers on site. Before we land and put your new toy at risk, I would like you to recon the situation. I assume one of the mods to your Quinjet was to allow you to exit suited up while still in flight?"

"Not when flying at Mach 2 but, yeah, there's an airlock. Two actually, in addition to normal egress points," Stark added sotto breath, his ears pinking as if embarrassed by the extravagance.

Phil didn't really care if the jet got ESPN (or more likely the Playboy Channel) while in flight, and there could come a time when multiple airlocks from the plane could be useful. Assuming, for instance, that Thor ever returned to Earth and didn't hold grudges against SHIELD for their interference with his hammer.

"Should we bring a couple of parajumpers with us?" Stark then asked, his expression as serious as Phil had ever seen it. "We're at our own Air Force base and I'm sure their medical personnel are just sitting on their asses waiting for something to do. Rhodey can arrange it."

"Yes, that would be a good call," Phil agreed. Someone other than SHIELD personnel handling triage wouldn't be a bad idea, since getting Blonsky into custody was going to be everyone's first priority, no matter how bad the damage was. Assuming Blonsky wasn't already in the wind. 

Stark signaled for Hogan to handle that, and if there was one good thing Phil could say about Stark, he hired people that would have made good SHIELD agents.

"Ross isn't going to be happy to see me," Stark pointed out as the car came to a stop before one of the fattest looking jets Phil had ever seen. It looked like something out of the original Star Trek, Romulan, if Phil wasn't mistaken. Delta-winged with raised jet turbines looking like nacelles coming out the back; a sloped, dark, at least four-seater translucent cockpit with an interior passenger/cargo hold that looked big enough for ballroom dancing.

SHIELD could do worse than to pick up a couple of these things for their own use outside the Initiative, but likely the WSC would never authorize the expenditure. Something would have to be done to aid SHIELD's own response time to the kind of global situations that suddenly kept popping up. Something more than trying to anticipate and have response teams scattered around the globe – or that could only carry fifteen passengers and necessary equipment.

"Assuming he's still alive, Ross will be grateful for anyone showing up and, frankly, I don't care if you piss him off." No need to tell Stark that'd he'd been sent to Ross in the first place about Blonsky and the Initiative to purposely do just that. It had worked, just not to the extent Phil and Jasper (or Fury) had hoped.

They climbed into the jet from stairs coming down from the cockpit. Phil took the time to greet and thank Colonel Rhodes, give him a barebones outline of what they were going into, and to provide him the coordinates while Stark waited, impatient to show off his latest design. Considering they had a few minutes to kill awaiting the medics, Phil finally relented, even asking a question or two about the specific capabilities of several of the instruments. He knew his way around a helicopter cockpit, and could probably land a small aircraft like a Cessna if he had to, but Barton was the one who knew his way around jets and would likely get a hard-on just seeing what he'd get to play with in the undoubtedly too near future.

Even as Phil turned away from that thought and followed Stark from the cockpit, he had to laugh at himself for his hopeless optimism. If Barton or Sitwell were in any position to do so, they would have contacted Fury directly by now, and Fury would have given Phil the update. No contact didn't have to mean dead, but Barton had been there specifically to make sure Blonsky didn't terrorize Las Vegas or any other outpost of civilians, and something –

"Stark," Phil cut his thoughts off, "does this thing get CNN or Fox News feeds?"

If Blonsky had escaped and not gone into hiding, there would be reports on his rampage.

When Stark wasn't reveling in his playboy persona, he really was a smart man, and he got Phil's drift immediately. "It gets one better. JARVIS, scan The Drudge Report and all other internet news sites, including the fringe communities. Filter for reports of monsters sighted in the last –" He looked to Phil, who shrugged. "The last hour, anywhere within North America."

Yes, Banner had been located off continent after the Hulk incident, but no one figured he'd lept or swam away, not when he could still just be Bruce Banner again.

"Yes, sir," the same disembodied voice that answered in Stark in Malibu replied.  A couple of minutes went by, time enough for the parajumpers to arrive from the local base, for Stark to get most of his Iron Man armor on, and for Phil to come up with a dozen worst case scenarios that were all death, destruction, and an on-going snipe hunt. Rhodes took care of the Air Force personnel, telling them to grab seats behind him and not bother anyone with questions. Phil finally took a seat himself in the back, which looked remarkable like a SHIELD C&C if it had been crammed into an ultra wide-body Gulfstream, while Stark hovered between the door to the passenger section and the cockpit, as if he wasn't quite sure where he should park himself.

Suddenly the console at Phil's right hand came to life (a screen about the size of his iPad), and words began scrolling across.  JARVIS, he guessed, an AI with enough initiative to keep the answer to Stark's query silent now that they had additional personnel aboard.

**I have compiled fifty-seven incidents, none from any major news feeds and most can be eliminated as products of whimsy or hallucination. Of the remaining eleven, three are reports of giant alligators in the Everglades; three Chupacabra sightings in Mexico and Texas; two report seeing the Ogopogo or Loch Ness equivalent in British Columbia; two are reports of Bigfoot, one in Northern California and one in West Virginia; and the remaining eye witness account, complete with badly rendered Photoshop images, is for a multi-tentacle monster coming out of the Chesapeake Bay that the blogger is sure is Cthulhu returned.**

"No offspring of the Creature of the Black Lagoon and Godzilla, then," Stark muttered as he came over to sit next to Phil, fully armored including his helmet, but with his face plate open. He gave voice to the same sigh of relief that Phil felt.

**No, sir.**

"Right, then," Stark called out louder. "Rhodey let's get this show on the road and go save some Army ass."

Letting Stark ramble wasn't the worst way Phil could think to pass the time; worst would be visualizing even more gruesome scenes of what they might be facing. Stark wasn't saying anything more, though, so Phil typed in his own query of JARVIS, hoping to be able to link his SHIELD cell phone into the Quinjet's communications system. This way if Fury called again, they wouldn't have to worry about blocked cell coverage or Phil being in a position to be unable to answer.

**Of course, sir.**

 _Please dial the A51 name in the contact list,_ Phil then typed. _And transmit to Agent Pierce that I am en route._

Not that Phil was all that concerned with the airmen hearing some of the details, but the habit of not mentioning Agents' names had become ingrained and Phil wasn't about to start getting sloppy. After getting confirmation, he started preparing non-disclosure agreements for the parajumpers; Stark would have a printer somewhere amongst all the other gleaming technology around them. Some things they wouldn't be able to keep secret, but if the airmen took pictures at the scene despite orders not to, the signed NDAs gave Phil the authorization to commandeer all cameras and delete incriminating images (after he'd copied them for SHIELD's analysis, of course). Of course, the NDAs would also confirm there was something interesting to be curious about, but they were military and respecting _need to know_ was part of their DNA.

"I'm thinking between Rhodey and I, we can muscle Blonskey into one of the C-Cubes," Stark suddenly spoke up, though not so loud he would likely be overheard by those in the cockpit. "But you're going to have to not care if it comes with a little bit of fricasseed abomination skin."

"He doesn't like it when you call him an abomination," Phil pointed out, like he'd pointed out to Jasper mere months ago. "And, no, I won't mind. From all reports Blonsky has impressing regenerative capabilities anyway. You should probably try not to remove a limb." Not that Phil cared about that either, but he was supposed to care.

Stark grinned. "Right, no pulling off arms or legs. Have to say, I'm hoping we don't have to get close enough for him to give it a try. He might not have your high moral code."

Stark was a perceptive as well as sarcastic asshole. Phil appreciated the flood of irritation just breathing next to Tony Stark normally brought out in him; it was more welcome than his apprehension. He looked over to see that Stark was running through a serious of schematics and formula, no doubt calculating the force-to-mass ratios it would take to push or carry an unwilling Blonsky abomination.

Of course, they could have gotten everything wrong, with Blonsky not being the problem but instead a third party, like HYDRA or the Ten Rings, who might have found out about Blonsky and want a pet killing machine for themselves.

"ETA to target zone is five minutes," Colonel Rhodes announced before Phil could go down that further road of despair.

There already, and Phil's vague nausea had nothing to do with the speeds they'd been traveling.

"Time for me to do my Iron Man thing." Stark grinned again, patting Phil on his knee. "Rhodey," he then called up to the cockpit, "drop down to a hover speed a couple miles out. I'm flying recon."

"You better get your butt in gear then," the colonel called back.  "Or I'll have to overshoot and come around again."

"If you see Blonsky, do not engage," Phil reminded Stark – Iron Man, since he was now talking to the face plate. "And don't forget he can leap higher than you can fly."

"He isn't faster," Iron Man shot back, before moving to the starboard bulkhead that was empty of seats.

Without him needing to push anything, part of the bulkhead slide back. Convenient if a little nerve wracking, but they were no longer going at speeds (or altitudes) to worry about explosive decompression, even if there wasn't an airlock on the other side. The parajumpers still looked spooked as they craned their necks back to look, or maybe the wide eyes were just because they were in the company of a man who'd made a flying suit of armor.

Love or hate Tony Stark, there were few who didn't want a chance to fly like he did themselves. The military were the ones, however, who also seemed to understand the responsibilities Stark undertook in the suit. And the risks. If Iron Man was involved, obviously this wasn't just another jump into hostile territory on a Search and Rescue.

 _"I have the base in sight,"_ Stark's voice echoed throughout the Quinjet a couple of minutes later. _"I'm tracking movement, but not from too many, and no one's moving far. More details as I get closer."_

Not a total write off then, and no enemy forces arrayed against them. For once Phil was glad for the reams of extra paperwork this would mean. With all of the participants being military or DOD contractors, there would be quiet payoffs and medical treatment for life, but no public lawsuits which, on the one hand, the possibility of such a threat might have prevented something like this from happening. But on the other, the world wasn't ready for super-beings, mutants, or aliens from other worlds. When the news finally did break, when accounts could no longer be contained or credibility challenged, SHIELD could only hope the public would accept that people like Stark, Captain Rogers and even Agents Romanoff and Barton were there and ready to step up and face the monsters for them. He and Fury were also hoping that such a disclosure came on their own timeframe, not someone else's with more media savvy than Vanko or Blonsky.

"Gentlemen," Phil turned toward the two parajumpers, "we have multiple casualties on the ground. Rescue and recovery teams are on their way to assist, but you'll be on your own for at least another half an hour. The damage may be from a variety of causes, but I can assure you that none of them are radioactive."

A concern, of course, when accidents happened in this area of the country, and if his entirely truthful statement got them thinking the opposite, that was no harm done. For all they knew, they were out here to work at the site of a test flight gone wrong. Or, more likely, a pilot going rogue given what little they would have been able to extrapolate from his and Stark's conversation.

Phil's words got them collecting their bags and equipment toward them, checking through supplies and putting their minds to triage and treatments. Stark's next words came across Phil's screen.

**Blonsky is down, unmoving about a mile from the base camp. The camp itself looks like a tornado – or an abomination – tore through it. Where do you want me to land?**

**Base camp. See if Ross is one of the survivors,** Phil typed back. **I don't want you approaching Blonsky until you have War Machine there as back-up.**

**I didn't know you cared, Coulson.**

**I don't want to lose anymore assets to this FUBARed op.**

No reply to that, not to Phil directly. Then, once more Stark's voice filled the jet.

_"Rhodey, I'm sending you coordinates for landing north of the camp. Agent Coulson wants you to come out in the suit."_

**When everyone else has cleared the jet, go to the back, Coulson,** Iron Man then silently got back into contact with Phil. **You'll find a map table, well, a console you can use as a map table. I've got JARVIS tagging everything here as I scan it so you'll be able to get the overview. Who am I looking for from SHIELD?**

Reasonably sure that Stark hadn't met either SHIELD agent before, Phil typed back: **Agents Sitwell and Barton. Sitwell will be in a regular suit, most likely the only one so dressed. Barton is field testing one of the uniforms you designed for the Initiative.**

**Why didn't you say so? It's got a built in comm system compatible to my own. I'll run through the frequencies and see if I get an answer.**

 Phil could only hope, and for more reasons than to gather badly needed intel. Those thoughts were interrupted though, by Colonel Rhodes stomping toward him as War Machine. God. Phil hadn't even realized they'd landed.

"Did you want me to give one of the PJs a JARVIS link?" War Machine asked, gesturing with an arm bigger than Phil's thigh toward the two that were waiting to debark.

Phil hesitated for a moment, then nodded and rose from his seat himself. JARVIS seemed perfectly capable of coordinating multiple conversations and he didn't want to leave the parajumpers in danger just because of a need for operational secrecy. He'd make sure JARVIS knew what calls to transmit in the open, though, even if the AI seemed awfully intuitive.

 _"I always knew you liked me best Coulson,"_ the sudden sound of Barton's voice distracted Phil so that he didn't see the other three men leave. _"You brought me Iron Man."_

Phil wanted to cry when he heard how ragged Barton sounded. Even if this was an entirely private channel, however (and not likely with Stark hovering nearby), that wouldn’t do. They were already closer than they should be due to the number of missions they'd run together, though nothing untoward had gone on between them that didn't happen between any two (or three) agents that worked well and frequently together. Now was not the time to make it into something more.

"I like Agent Romanoff best," Phil lied, working very hard to offer his normal drollness when dealing with Clint Barton's blatant flirting. "I suffer your existence because you are her partner. Obviously I should have sent her along and left the B team at home."

 _"Be glad you didn't,"_ Barton replied, any trace of flirting or levity abruptly gone. _"She couldn't have done anything against a guy who can flip flatbeds like tiddlywinks and leap a mile at a time. Do you know Jasper's status? Or anyone else's?"_

"We have medics on the ground, checking," he reassured Barton. Barton calling Sitwell Jasper was telling; the two hadn't worked together so often to be that close. Being under extreme pressure did often play havoc with chains of command, however, and Barton was often obnoxiously friendly enough that you ended up liking him despite yourself. So Barton not knowing the outcome of the others wasn't good. He would have gone to high ground if he'd had the chance, should have had a full view of the camp –

"Where are you, Barton?" Phil moved toward the rear of the compartment as Stark had advised. There, the bulkhead was covered with banks of monitors and squatting in front, a table – or console – reminiscent of the computer table in the original Tron movie, and how that did not surprise Phil. Even he had nearly had a spontaneous orgasm when first seeing it, wanting it with all the passion of his youth. Stark had apparently transferred want to create.

"JARVIS, can you show me?" he then asked of the AI.

 _"If you've found Blonsky, I'm twenty, twenty-five meters vertical and to his five o'clock,"_ Barton responded first.

Atop the table, a holographic mock-up appeared which showed the topography of the entire basin. Tags then started marking the locations of people and anything else Iron Man was identifying in his flyover.

"Are you confirming that Blonsky is down, Barton?"

_"And out, though I don't know if it's from the fuck load of sedative I shot into him, or simply from the fall. Despite my best, he's still breathing. "_

It was said lightly, but Phil figured Barton was telling the truth. Once people had started dying, Barton would have done anything necessary to stop the killing despite orders to keep Blonsky alive. This wouldn't have been the first time Barton had killed to save others, nor would have been Phil's first time making sure the reports confirmed such actions had been fully justified. SHIELD dealt in need, not desires.

"Next time, then." Phil shouldn't have said that aloud, but it got Barton to chuckle and that did a lot to assuage Phil's guilt.

 _"The Army really fucked this shit up,"_ Barton continued in all seriousness again. _"They gave me ten shells and at best I missed maybe twice because he moves much faster than you'd think for his size. The shots didn't even slow him down, at least not quickly enough to prevent him from decimating the camp. Their security barrier didn't do shit either. I'm hoping we've got something better for him. Or maybe we should just let him go. I'm not sure even  Stark's going to be able to manage him, much less the Agency, even if you are a badass second only to Fury, Phil. I really don't want to see your broken body added to his count."_

 _Phil_ not Coulson. Barton really was shaken by what had happened and given the images JARVIS was throwing up on the monitors, Phil could see why. Bodies, too many bodies, in amongst the destroyed vehicles and structures. The damage in Harlem had been more significant, but this seemed worse since most of the civilians had been evacuated in Harlem before Blonsky and Banner had torn up the area. _Phil_ also meant a more personal concern from Barton, something Phil normally only heard concerning Agent Romanoff from Barton. While Agents of SHIELD were dedicated to the job with _everything_ else secondary, it was hard, sometimes, and certain leeway was given to partners. To an agent and a handler, though… But then, he and Barton – Clint – were as much partners as Clint and Natasha.

"Iron Man and War Machine will be handling Blonsky," he assured Clint. "We've got one of the containment units coming in that held him after his last rampage. You might want to come down and away from the area before that happens, though, just in case it gets … messy."

_"Nah, I'm good. Hope you don't need cover fire though. Ran out of bullets, arrows, and I think I broke my bow."_

Hearing the hollow, almost bewildered tone, Phil found himself stepping back from the table and sliding down the side of the bulkhead to the floor. Unsurprisingly the 3D rendering he'd been studying popped up on the flat screen more or less in front of him, though that was not what he was staring at. Or caring about. Clint had become pretty good at hiding all sorts of tells that might give him away over the years, but this time there was definitely something, and Phil didn't think it was just that he was weaponless.

"Am I going to have to tell Agent Romanoff on you?" This wouldn't be the first mission Clint downplayed his own injuries despite Natasha's penchant for taking over much of his physical therapy afterward. (Her idea of therapy was always of the tough love kind; she also preferred to use pain to encourage proper behavior, though never in the same way those of Clint's past had used it.)

Clint gave a broken laugh that nonetheless held real humor. _"Things aren't that bad. I just need help getting down since I fucked up my knee. But I've got water with me and the sun's moving in my favor for shade soon, so I can wait until you get enough agents in to assist."_

"What happened to your bow?" Because an answer to that should give Phil more of an idea of what had happened.

_"It fell down the mountain."_

Phil frowned. "Before or after you let go of it?"

 _"Before!"_ Clint sounded affronted. _"I don't fall down mountains."_

Given the surrounded topographical features JARVIS displayed as the AI now tagged Clint's position along with Blonsky's, Phil had to wonder just how true that statement might be, but he didn't call Clint on his likely lie. Thanks to his circus background, Clint could perform acrobatic maneuvers quite beyond the skills of most people – including most other agents; in that he and Agent Romanoff were well matched. Still, Clint took risks that other people would also classify as reckless, and sometimes…

Though Phil was still concerned about what Clint wasn't admitting by offering up the knee injury, he suddenly noticed that JARVIS had added a tag for an additional human life sign, nearly a thousand feet to the south, east and _above_ Clint's position, which might just be more pressing. "Did you have a friendly with you when it all went down, or do I need to worry about someone sneaking up on you, Barton?"

_"No, good, that'll be Corporal Keen. An Army Scout that was assigned as my spotter. I told him to run when Blonsky was heading toward us; glad to know he listened and was able to get the hell out of dodge. Make sure someone tells him it's safe to come in, Coulson."_

"As soon as it is, I promise," which was easier to promise than to ask for details as Clint had just confirmed what Phil had feared – Blonsky had also targeted the long-range guy shooting at him.

**Incoming contact from Agent Pierce,** JARVIS scrolled across the bottom of one of the screens in front of Phil.

"You sure you're okay in the short term, Barton?" Phil asked as he pulled himself back to his feet. He didn't want to abandon Clint, but he did still have his own job to get through.

_"Yeah, don't need you to hold my hand, Coulson. Go be your badass self and intimidate everyone with paperwork."_

As if things were normal, Phil ignored the crack against the other half of his job. "If you change your mind, JARVIS – that is Stark's AI – will put you into the queue. If something becomes an emergency, let it know and we'll take care of you."

_"Sure, Phil. Like I said, I'm good."_

Phil would just have to trust Clint. "JARVIS, route Agent Pierce's call through."

_"Agent Coulson?"_

"Go ahead, Pierce."

_"We're fifteen miles out and have hit a small snag; the support vehicle has blown a tire. Do I abandon or do we have time to take care of it?"_

"Hold." Then, "Iron Man, War Machine, is there any indication Blonsky's going to be awakening soon?" Phil asked. According to the data Ross had provided from the volunteered testing Blonsky had agreed to at the prospect of  joining the Initiative, the answer should be a definite no, assuming Clint hadn't been mistaken about how many times he'd hit Blonsky. Also assuming that Ross' people hadn’t also screwed up the potency of the dosages they'd engineered for sniper delivery. Phil wasn't willing to take that chance with everyone's lives however, not when he could get accurate, real time data.

 _"No sign of movement other than breathing,"_ War Machine responded. _"Since it looks like we've got the time, did you want us to pick up your man and his spotter?"_

Obviously he and Iron Man had been listening in. Obviously, they'd also been picking up the slack for Phil.

As the no came automatically to Phil's lips, he stopped himself, realizing that in his effort to maintain total objectivity with regard to Agent Clint Barton, he'd actually been about to _punish_ him lest someone else realize that Clint really was his favorite. Had Clint been anyone else and there still being a few minutes before anything could be done with Blonsky, Phil wouldn't have hesitated saying yes, would have likely given the order himself without needing to be prompted.

"Do it," he commanded. Thank you. But saying the last out loud would again be giving too much away.

 _"I've already sent a hearty, if not completely hail, Agent Sitwell your direction, Coulson. JARVIS, he's authorized entry to the Quinjet,"_ Iron Man chimed in himself. "And show _Coulson where the bottled water is."_

For some reason, Phil was waiting for a 'very good, sir', since JARVIS reminded him more of Jeeves than Alfred Pennyworth. But like any good valet/gateway, JARVIS knew what to allow and what to filter. 

After getting one of the bottles JARVIS revealed to set aside for Jasper, Phil returned to the screens. He purposely did not track the Iron Man and War Machine dots through everything, though he was pleased to note that Iron Man had gone for Clint instead of Corporal Keen. The two would eventually be working together as Avengers – or so was the plan – so it was better they got used to interacting and looking out for one another.

JARVIS started transmitting real time video as Iron Man set down near Clint, however, which forestalled Phil's intent not to get distracted from what he should be doing. Clint looked banged up and bloodied upon Iron Man's arrival, but otherwise intact. The two began talking but JARVIS was not transmitting the exchange and while Phil was an okay lip reader, he wasn't good enough to follow when Iron Man kept turning his head in a sweep of the area before then looking over at Blonsky's body ever few seconds in an unsurprising show of nervousness.

When next Iron Man returned his attention to Clint, Clint was upending a bottle of water over his head then shaking away the excess before scrubbing the rest with an arm. As he finished, Iron Man hopped down a few feet to where Clint's bow had fallen before returning and using the pieces to fashion a brace for Clint's knee.

Satisfied that Iron Man was exercising proper care, Phil let himself transfer his attention to the other screens and other victims. Each of the other dots representing people began shifting into the colors of the universal triage tag as the parajumpers (tagged in blue) reported in to JARVIS. There weren’t as many black dots as Phil might have expected, most of them clustered around a building that, when Phil went looking for it amongst the still images from Iron Man or War Machine's flyover, had likely been a Quonset hut but now looked more like a dropped and opened tin can with it's roof missing and a jagged, dented tear in one side.

More red dots appeared than Phil had hoped would, but seriously injured was better than unrecoverable or dead. The bulk, though, were tagged as walking wounded. He noted there were even a few white dots moving amongst the rest that he chose to interpret as soldiers who were uninjured and helping with their compatriots.

One of the green walking wounded dots was tagged as Jasper Sitwell as it merged with the Quinjet's wing symbol on the map. Phil moved toward the cockpit, happy to see that Sitwell wasn't having difficulty coming up the stairs. His skin and clothes were almost the same color as the desert, as if he'd been rolling in it, save for the streaks of blood, but otherwise, he looked little worse for the wear as the cliché went. The agent also no longer had his jacket or tie, but whether they had been sacrificed to initial medical care or simply the rising heat, Phil didn't want to ask lest his subordinate think he was criticizing

"Saudi Sheiks don't have Gulfstream or Lear jets like this," Sitwell observed as he looked around.

"It's Wakandan, built for Stark, apparently. He calls it – well he or King T'Challa calls it – a Quinjet. Something Stark intends for the Initiative to use to get to trouble spots more quickly once we get the go ahead." Phil was torn between wanting to help Sitwell to one of the seats and giving the man his space. He suspected he was merely hovering and handed over the water bottle before stepping back.

"The blood's not mine," Sitwell told him, reading him well enough. "Well, okay, some is, but most of it is Ross'. And his driver's. Blonsky's first fatality."

"Is Ross still alive?" Phil didn't like the General, certainly didn't like the way the General conducted his affairs, but being arrogantly stupid didn't merit a death sentence.

Sitwell nodded. "I think the old warhorse is too belligerent to die. He'll be laid up for a while, but he'll recover. Unless he strokes out from having to deal with Stark."

Phil knew the feeling. Whether Ross' military career would recover however –

"Speaking of Stark. Say yes to the Quinjet." Sitwell still had wide eyes as he continued exploring the interior and ended up looking at all the monitors, situation boards and map table. "What's one more thing to be beholden to Stark for?" he added with a smirk.

 _"Now that's what_ I like to hear," Stark's voice moved from overhead to direct as he swooped in through the still open hatchway after Sitwell. He held Clint in his arms like a child. Clint didn't look happy or comfortable, but he found a big stupid grin for Phil. One that widened impossibly when Stark said: "JARVIS, activate Stark contingency three," and what was in essence a Murphy bed was revealed on the sidewall opposite the monitors, folding down along its width instead of length so it could also work as a couch.

If number three was a bed, Phil felt certain he didn't want to know what contingencies one and two were.

"Corporal Keen thought he'd be of more use with his buddies," was all Stark offered, though, as he carefully set Clint down on what turned out to be a _full-size_ bed. "So I'm heading back out to meet Rhodey and we'll stand watch over your monster."

Phil supposed he should be grateful the bed wasn't a queen or king size, but then it was Stark's style to use a smaller one so two occupants would have to snuggle together to fit.

"Didn't I see something like this in the last _Mission Impossible_ movie?" Clint asked. "Only in a train car instead of a plane?" He gawked at the Quinjet too, though he turned his body carefully and without really moving his head. His right arm clutched the interior edge of the bed in a white knuckle grip.

Phil had taken the time to see that movie too, having a fondness for a couple of the actors. "What have you done to your neck?" was his response, though.

Clint's flush was just as much of giveaway as his limited movement. "Nothing," he tried. Then, off of Phil's scowl: "I just banged up my shoulder. Blonsky took a swipe and I didn't duck enough."

"You engaged in hand to hand with that thing?" Sitwell asked, his tone incredulous.

"Hell, no," Clint told them. "Just didn't move fast enough. How about you?" he added with nod to Sitwell. "You're okay? I was too busy trying to keep Blonsky in my scope to see what happened after he upended your jeep."

Sitwell shrugged. "I got my bell rung, but I was already jumping out before Blonsky reached us directly. Mild concussion, temporary loss of consciousness, nothing that hasn't happened before. You, however, Agent Barton, look like you fell down a mountain."

Clint's attempt to clean up had simply left the scratches more obvious, and pain deepened the normal laugh lines around his eyes. Phil was tired of seeing his people like that, but the only way to avoid it was to leave or die. SHIELD had been conceived to take on the jobs the other military or spook agencies didn't have the people, resources, or skills to handle, which meant almost all of their ops involved danger, injury, or significant stress. The ones senior agents like Sitwell were in charge of (or called in to fix like Phil) all too often dealt with all three.

"JARVIS, does the Quinjet have a first aid kit?" The parajumpers had brought their own extensive field kits, but Phil didn't want to have to call one of them away from the rest of the people they were treating; he and Sitwell were both well versed in field medicine, as was Clint himself as a result of being Agent Romanoff's partner for so long.

**Just here, Agent Coulson,** and another piece of the nearby bulkhead popped open to show a fifteen inch square bag securely cabled against the outer wall.

So maybe this area had been intended for medical use all along, instead of catering to one of Stark's baser indulgences.

Clint raised his brow. "So JARVIS is the plane?" he asked. "I thought he was one of Stark's minions, like his driver or Pepper Potts."

**As you say, Agent Barton, a minion who is also a sophisticated AI interface. Mr. Stark does like having people – and his equipment – do his bidding on command.**

Clint laughed until it turned into coughing, the coughing then turning into tears as both shook his body. Phil was at his side in an instant, passing on the first aid kit to Sitwell while he tried to do his best to get Clint to lay back. When he took hold of Clint's left arm, Clint shied away, but not before Phil felt it give in an unnatural way.

"You dislocated your shoulder." He couldn't help sounding pissed; Clint should have mentioned that right off.

Clint brought up his head, his lips twisted into a tight grin. "Broke the collarbone too, which is why I didn't slam it back into place. Going to need surgery this time, and fucking weeks of rehab. Looks like I'll be out of your hair for a while, Coulson."

Phil didn’t dignify that with an answer. He simply moved up onto the bed to kneel behind Clint and then coaxed him to lean back against his chest while he very carefully started to prod for the location and severity of the break. Clint wasn't having the difficulties in breathing that came from a broken sternum or ribs, so it wasn't likely a proximal fracture, which was maybe the best news they could have given the injury. No broken ribs meant no punctured lung.

In seeing there appeared to be no blood beyond what could be accounted for by the scrapes and scratches, Phil was less concerned that the fracture might be a compound break. If it was, the snugness of Clint's sleeveless body armor was acting like a pressure bandage as well as protecting the pierced skin from airborne contaminants. Until they could get Clint to a real hospital, leaving it as it was, was better than chancing exposure. That was also without factoring in that even unzipping Clint's upper armor would exert significant, undesirable pressure. Cutting the material would be even more painful as well as difficult, considering it was _armor_ and they most likely had only basic shears stored in the kit. The whole point of the uniform's construction was to render it snug and slice resistant after all, to slow down and transfer out the force of a bullet's impact like Kevlar but much more flexible.

Clint's breathing sped up as Phil probed, catching a couple of times before he spit out a few curse words obviously picked up from Agent Romanoff when Phil reached the actual break. Clint tried to twist away, but stayed caught between Phil's chest and his fingers.

"It's okay," Phil said more calmly than he felt, dropping his cheek next to Clint's and speaking so quietly that he wasn't sure Sitwell – kneeling next to them – even heard. Letting out his own breath when he felt the barest hint of a nod, Phil shifted his touch to a gentle rubbing under the point of the break, slow and careful until Clint's breath slowed and he could feel him working to release the tension. Phil allowed himself a smile when Clint stopped holding himself upright, when he relaxed enough to trust Phil to carry his weight. A long sigh and then Clint let his head rest against Phil's neck and collarbone.

Phil saw that Sitwell had readied a sling when he lifted his head up again. Nodding, Phil carefully shifted his arms, first sliding his hand very carefully under Clint's left arm and then across his ribs, resolutely ignoring the quiet sounds of distress that Clint made when this shifted and pulled on his shoulder. Phil's grip on Clint's right shoulder tightened; he and Sitwell both ignored the renewed tears and curses as Sitwell then slipped the ends of the straps down the space Phil had made for them between Clint's body and arm to make the first wrap around Clint's wrist. Next the straps were crossed  into a figure eight up and over the right side of Clint's neck to shift the pressure and drag before bringing them down to secure them under Clint's elbow and fasten with Velcro ends. A secondary strap was used to completely immobilize Clint's elbow against his body, these ends wrapping entirely around Clint's ribs before also being fashioned into a loop around the right side of Clint's neck.

"Is there any numbness?" Sitwell asked as he reached for Clint's fingers and manipulated them carefully to check for nerve damage that might have already set in.

Phil could feel Clint tense back up against him and squeezed very gently in warning.

"Some," Clint admitted in obvious reluctance; a sniper that lost too much movement, range, or flexibility in his dominant hand or arm generally ended up retired out. "Nothing more than usually happens when I dislocate the shoulder. I wouldn't mind some ice."

**The ice maker is toward the front, sirs.**

"How about morphine?" Sitwell then asked, pulling an ampoule out from the other contents of the first aid kit.

Phil was the one who held his breath at the question, while Clint answered matter-of-factly about something in his file that was known only to Fury, Agent Romanoff, SHIELD's medical personnel and Phil himself.

"Not a good idea. A couple of years back, I lost a few days in North Korea to heroin. One of the Triads thought they could hook me and get me to spill Tasha's location. I'd prefer to find out about a potential addiction problem for something more significant than a stupid broken bone."

Sitwell took his own careful breath before nodding. "So Oxy is out too," he said more to himself than anyone else as he set aside more supplies. "NSAIDs it is, then," he announced, taking out a packet, then one more, of ibuprofen. "Should we be worried that Stark has Schedule II type narcotics in here?" he asked, looking mildly perturbed as well as amused. He tore the packets open and dropped the pills into Clint's right hand, then offered what was left of his water.

Clint shook off the water and dry swallowed the ibuprofen, making Phil wince. He could do it too, but preferred not to. Natasha Romanoff _chewed_ hers.

"Any Type I in there, like marijuana?" Clint asked Sitwell. "Even if I did believe in the gateway theory, some weed would go really good right now."

"Not while we're still in the middle of an op," Phil chided as he'd be expected to before the full meaning of his words hit him – and Sitwell seconds later, going by the other's widening eyes.

Clint realized it too. "Shit, right, Blonsky. How could you forget about Blonsky, Coulson?"

Phil knew exactly how. How was intimately pressed up against him. Sitwell, bless him, was up on his feet, however, before Phil had figured out how to extract himself without hurting Clint further.

JARVIS was the one who came through first, however.

**My apologies, gentlemen, for causing any unnecessary worry. Masters Stark and Rhodes have successfully imprisoned the Blonsky creature in the Stark C-Cube. They would have told you themselves, but they are currently arguing with one another over which of them must act as escort as the creature is transported to The Vault. Agent Pierce also sends his regards and has taken charge of coordinating the recovery while everyone else awaits the arrival of additional rescue personnel from the Air Force. As everything appeared to be under control and you had your own concerns and rescue to deal with, I took the liberty of withholding what I feared might be a distraction.**

Before Phil could marvel not at the AI's initiative this time but at how it could sound properly contrite, Clint was laughing again, then curling around his body again in pain. "You are going to hurt yourself," Phil scolded, feeling a little giddy himself that the end turned out to be so anticlimactic.

At that Clint turned his face into Phil's neck, still chuckling but working to control his mirth and his pain.

Sitwell met Phil's gaze with a shrug and a nod away toward the front of the plane.  "How about I go check in with Pierce. He deserves to know we're all alright from someone other than Stark."

Phil nodded. "JARVIS, please inform Iron Man that he is on escort duty, unless he has the necessary skills to fly this plane." At the same time, he shifted to sit on his heels, then carefully reposition himself so he could take a better sitting position with his feet on the deck so he could lean back against the bulkhead and pulled Clint back toward him when Clint would have moved away. Stop, he said with his hands, tucking Clint's body against his chest again with Clint now more or less sitting in his lap. Clint capitulated with ill grace, but that might have been because of Sitwell's all-too-knowing, shit-eating grin as he left.

"Will you then please coordinate with the medical personnel outside to have them send their critical wounded onboard, pending Colonel Rhodes' return, and request flight approval to land at Tonapah," he continued on with JARVIS.

**Very good, sir.**

Phil buried his smile in Clint's spiky hair, buried more than that, he hoped, but maybe not everything. He'd need to deal with this… attraction before his inattention could be repeated.

They'd gotten lucky this time.

*******

"Any word on our boy, yet?"

As Phil had long ago trained himself out of showing surprise, he didn't startle upon hearing the voice behind him, even if Natasha Romanoff was one of the last people he expected to run into here in the waiting room. He finished pouring his coffee and carefully set the carafe and cup down. "Tea?" he offered, knowing her preference.

"Thank you, as long as they have something other than the typical American abomination."

There were a few of the ubiquitous Lipton bags, but…"They have a Bigelow assortment," he told her. "Ms. Potts enjoys Pomegranate, the Green Tea version, which is why I suspect it is here, but there are also the standard black teas, Oolong and Chai."

They'd done enough missions together that Phil knew how Natasha prepared her teas, but over the years she'd refined her palate beyond her Russian upbringing, and he wouldn't presume to assume what kind to seep for her in this instance.

He felt more than heard her approach, accepted the warmth of her arm as it snaked around his waist and then drew her toward him in a gentle hug. For a moment they just stood there, taking comfort from one another, ignoring tea and coffee both.

"We were in the air as soon as the first call came through," she finally broke the silence, answering his unspoken questions as she let him go and took a step away. "Nick decided he needed to oversee Blonsky's incarceration personally, and maybe talk to General Ross. Honestly, though? I think he's more motivated to put himself out of contact with the World Security Council."

Phil nodded and found the milk and honey when she picked out a packet of the Spicy Chai. "And you just decided to tag along?"

She shrugged. "I go where I'm needed. If nothing else, I can keep rein on Stark for you." That offer came with a grin that put Phil in mind of one of Stark's more… colorful rants.

"Natalie Rushman is still on Stark Industries payroll?" He knew that, probably, but for once couldn't recall, and nodded when she nodded, disregarding the momentary cloudiness of concern in her eyes at his lapse.

"Pepper likes the idea of being able to call on SHIELD for personal protection without her board of directors or the rest of the world picking up on it. I'm pretty sure she'd prefer it was you --"

"She's in love with Tony Stark."

Natasha nodded. "She's even involved with him right now. But she doesn't count on it lasting. I imagine she's finding it hard to believe after having had to wait for so long. To have wanted for so long."

As a master deep cover spy, no one could pull off guileless as well as Natasha Romanoff, but Phil had been her handler for as many years as he'd been Clint's, and he knew when she was playing him. Goading him. He wasn't naïve enough to claim that she _couldn't_ play him, but he rather hoped she never would, not for real. And in this instance she was telegraphing it intentionally; her way of expressing disappointment without giving away anything if someone else might be observing or listening, as certain habits never faded.

"So you should ask her out for coffee or something, anyway," Natasha was adding after a long beat of silence. "If nothing else it will piss Stark off, but I imagine it also might kick start something in his head. And Pepper could certainly use another friend who isn't intimidated by her boyfriend."

"What… oh."That wasn't at all what he'd thought Natasha was saying, what she was implying and it took Phil a moment to realize he was making her suspiscious. "Yeah. Maybe. Ms. Potts is an extraordinary woman. I'm sure she values _your_ friendship."

Natasha narrowed her eyes as he successfully turned the conversation back on her, then lowered them which was an equivalent of a shrug as well as capitulation; knowing she'd gone off the mark somewhere but not sure or, more likely, not caring enough to figure it out. She took a sip of her tea then took a further step back while giving him another long  look before turning to survey the room instead that he'd been offered by the Air Force while he waited. Finally she made her way over to one of the chairs and slipped her heels off before taking a seat, her legs folded up under her.

"So, Agent Sitwell and Clint?"

Phil could either take the seat next to her or one from across the room, either making their conversation silted, as the seats were affixed to each other, unable to be turned. That left the couch -- well, actually, he guessed it was a loveseat more than a couch, having space for only two people. Her intent, of course, her way of encouraging him to relax even though there was no way he would be letting down his guard. Not yet. Not for another… hour and forty minutes if the doctor's initial estimates were remotely accurate.

"Jasper sustained only minor bumps and bruises, having anticipated better than any of the others that something was likely to go wrong," he told her as he reluctantly took a seat on the couch. "He insisted on remaining on site to oversee the clean-up. Since it was his op in the first place, I didn't feel it my place to override his decision once the parajumpers agreed he was fine."

She gave him a soft, pleased smile. There were only a few senior field agents who felt qualified or comfortable enough to deal with the Barton-Romanoff partnership, fewer still that the two of them trusted enough that it wasn't a chore for everyone involved. Jasper Sitwell qualified on both counts; trusted enough that the two normally gave him minimal grief and he trusted them in turn that they knew how to get the job done without micromanaging them too badly.

"And Clint?" she asked again after taking another sip of her tea.

Phil didn't bother to hide his frown. He did manage to keep from looking at his watch again, knowing not more than a minute had changed from the last time, and that Natasha would most definitely pick up on his nerves. She might mistake them simply for a general concern, but she also might not, especially considering all of his other lapses.

"Cli -- Agent Barton is still in surgery." Of course, that slip up was the most telling of all, but Phil quickly continued on, knowing he could most likely distract her with the details. "It's expected to go on for a couple of hours. Blonsky made a mess of his left shoulder, fracturing the scapula as well as the clavicle. Add to that a type I shoulder separation and a dislocation -- unsurprisingly we were unable to reduce it in the field because of the other damage, so that’s up to the surgeon too. Then there's a fractured knee, but they don't think surgery will be required for it and Barton tore his rotator cuff in his right shoulder when he threw himself off the mountain and nearly missed the caving ladder. He'll be out for weeks and need extensive physical therapy, but everyone is confident he'll be able to come back from it, if maybe not to one hundred percent."

Even a ninety percent Clint Barton was better than any other hundred percent agent as far as his aim. As for his acrobatics and strength, age would temper those soon enough even if this injury did not and was something Clint was already making plans and routines for.

"Assuming he doesn't damage things further by being too impatient during the recovery." But Natasha's expression shifted from the concern she'd shown as he'd listed off Clint's injuries to her more common expression of wicked amusement, this time tempered with the relief she allowed to show in her eyes. "As long as I am available, I will make sure he behaves. I will help with his therapy, too."

Phil found a smile for that promise; Clint and Natasha were their own worst taskmasters when injured, not only to themselves, but in dealing with each other. It came from beyond being partners and friends, from that place where the both of them had once only had each other to rely on and trust, from the sheer need to have the other well and whole, the need to _be_ well and whole in order to have the other's back.  They were pitiless, _merciless_ , when overseeing on another's fitness, and exactly what each other needed, not matter how skilled and experienced were the therapy specialists SHIELD recruited and employed.

"As long as I am around, I'll make sure you're not sent somewhere else unless you are our only option," he promised in return.

"Now, how about you?"

"Me?" Phil dissembled. "Blonsky was down before I even got on site. I'm --"

"You have made yourself four cups of coffee, none of which you have drunk," Natasha stopped him, and gestured to different points in the room that held the evidence of her statement before taking the cup he'd been clutching from his hands. "That is not fine. _You_ are not fine. So what has you so worried?"

Even though he knew he was only telegraphing it worse, Phil couldn't meet the gentleness in her expression and turned his face away. "What am I not worried about?" he said more sharply than he'd intended. She didn't flinch away from his anger, of course, no less well trained than he was and by her look, his response wasn't unexpected anyway.

"The World Security Council, Fury -- and SHIELD's -- vulnerability, Rogers may or may not be able to adjust to our world, not to mention Stark… or Banner, which in turn, coupled with this mess with Blonsky, may put the Initiative at risk." She nodded as she finished the recital, as _he_ nodded, then cocked her head. "But none of this is new, not really, and some of it is actually better than it was. No one but Ross and the WSC wanted Blonsky on the team, and Stark is obviously building and spending with some thought to the Initiative, right? Wasn't that why you were available when the Blonsky situation blew up? Because you were here to see what Stark had come up with for SHIELD? Even Clint being in Medical is nothing all that different, and if not him, someone else you've been responsible for --"

She suddenly stopped herself and looked at him again, seeing something Phil obviously wasn't quick enough to mask. Whatever she thought she saw had her leaning back, a small smile once more playing on her lips before she raised a brow in his direction.

"Really?" she asked, although her expression showed it was no real question in her mind any longer. "So I shouldn't keep encouraging you to steal Pepper away from Stark, then?"

Phil shook his head, not denying her so much as he was the entire situation. Which, of course, she saw right through.

"Well, Clint is going to be pleased. He might even decide his weeks of rehab will be worth it."

"I'm not… it's not that simple," Phil protested, changing the words when he found he couldn’t actually come right out an lie, not to her, nor to himself any longer.

"Nothing involving Clint ever is," she reminded him. "But you've always thought him worth it in the past. Are you really going to say he's not also worthy of being loved?"

The blander her tone and expression, the more she was showing her disappointment, her disapproval. Her most lethal hits always came when you thought yourself safe, that _she_ was safe. Phil had something of the same in his own arsenal, but his cuts worked best with strangers who couldn't see beyond the surface, the scalpel you never saw or felt. Natasha thrust deepest when it was personal, and preferred to add that little twist that always left you gasping for breath.

Phil knew exactly where to hit her back; a simple reminder that she had been the one to actually play with Clint's loyalty and feelings not once, but twice.

The first had been intentionally, back when the two of them had first started working together, Natasha pursuing and using a relationship with Clint as a way to exact revenge against an old mentor during a time where she'd cared nothing about collateral damage, such as Clint feelings for her in return. They'd gotten past that, eventually, then gotten together once more, for real it had seemed to everyone, including Natasha herself. Right up until she'd found herself feeling vulnerable, feeling _weak_. Clint had pulled the plug on their relationship that time, knowing if he hadn't, she'd have ended up hating him eventually. He done it soon enough and in a way they could remain partners, could retain their trust in one another.

All the better for SHIELD, both times actually; the agent inside Phil's soul actually glad after a fashion, since separately the two of them were formidable, but as a team then were damn nigh impossible to shake or stop. No superpowers, but Avengers material none the less, and Phil had little doubt that if one said no, the other would do no less.

The better even for Phil directly, he supposed. In having been a witness to both break-ups, he'd also been in a position to help pick up the pieces. That first time, he'd not only earned Clint's trust by being there to listen or watch over when Clint preferred to have his body cry blood instead of tears, he'd also ended up earning Natasha's. Who, after claiming her vengeance, had come to regret the damage she'd left in her wake and cared enough to be glad that Phil could offer things she could not.

The second time was likely when Phil's own feelings had first begun to change, but he'd been even less prepared to acknowledge them then than he was now. Clint had needed a friend, not a replacement.

"You haven't been objective about either of us since Shinuiju," she said more carefully, and took his hands in between hers. "Yet that's never stopped you from being able to do your job, or stopped us from being able to do ours. And, no, disobeying your order to leave you behind in Isfahan does not count. We wouldn't have left _Hill_ behind in Isfahan."

"Maria Hill is a good agent," Phil protested automatically, knowing he was a coward for taking the easy out. Knowing Natasha was going to call him on it too. But then maybe he needed her to.

So, of course, Natasha didn't.

"She is a good agent," Natasha agreed. "But she's not a good person. Nice person," she corrected herself. "She wants your job. Or Fury's. And she thinks she's capable despite all evidence to the contrary. Sometimes we get tired of having to be the ones who are stuck teaching her."

Natasha sighed and let go of Phil's hands, but only so she could move from her chair and climb onto the couch next to him, leaning her weight into him so that he had little choice but to lift his arm and let her tuck her body next to his. If Clint were here too, if this had been the preferred end of a mission, she'd be thrusting her feet into Clint's lap right now in a demand for attention and one of Clint's damn fine foot rubs. Or be leaning into Clint and demanding that Phil warm her feet instead.

His objectivity was compromised when it came to either of them, but that was not something he regretted previously, nor could truly say he regretted even now. Duty served, just as he served, but there was something to be said for the feel of soft hair sliding through your fingers, and soft breaths reminding you, you weren't alone. Something even SHIELD knew, as there weren't regulations against fraternization, simply guidelines on how to manage -- and compartmentalize if needed -- and penalties for anyone who harassed, coerced or abused someone else, whether the other was a SHIELD employee or not.

It certainly would be novel, as well as nice, to consider a relationship with someone who he wouldn't have to lie to about what he did or why he was gone from home so often. To have someone to come home to or welcome home in return. He hadn't been kidding, however, when he said it was complicated. And, frankly, the timing couldn't be worse.

"I don't have time to have a mid-life crisis," he whispered into the fall of red hair under his hand and cheek. She'd cut it recently; both he and Clint had mourned.

"If it wasn't that, it'd be something else," she said into his chest, wiggling around to make herself more comfortable. "We never have time between the next mission or crisis. If you are simply waiting for time… _Dvum smertyam ne byvat, odnoy ne minovat._ "

_Two deaths will not happen, one is inevitable._

The trouble was, that's exactly what Phil feared. On the other hand, he'd always preferred Tennyson to Russian proverbs.

 

******

The sound of knocking at his door didn't mess up Clint's shot, but it did make him cautious, and wish that the bow he held wasn't of the Nerf variety. One of Mrs. Chiang's daughters wouldn't be making his dinner delivery for another fifteen minutes, and he never had any other kind of visitors. Not even solicitors, not since a former tenant had permanently painted in the police tape outline around a body whose feet extended out into the hallway and had hung the sign stating solicitors would be shot.

(He supposed it could be a Jehovah's Witness or a Mormon; the first being too naïve to recognize the stains and marks on the floor, and the later having grown emboldened ever since the _Book of Mormon_ had opened on Broadway.)

Sure, there were also a handful of people who could access this address in his file, but Tasha always called first (and preferred to meet at the dive bar down the road when she stopped by anyway). Fury would call also and just demand Clint get his ass down to HQ, as would Coulson or Hill, with neither of them couching the order any nicer than Fury did. That left Barney or someone else from Clint's past, but he was certain he hadn't been sloppy enough for anyone to find him here.  No one could have recognized him and spied or followed him without him noticing. His body might not yet be at a hundred percent, but his eyesight and instinct were just fine, thank you.

On the other hand, if he had made a mistake, he wasn't going to compound it with another. He set the bow down and grabbed up a towel to put around his neck and cover the bruise from his broken collar bone and the healing scar from his surgery. He also grabbed up his SIG before limping over to the door. He kept no lights on in the front half of the loft, so he wouldn't throw out a shadow when he took a quick glance out the peephole. The lights outside his door, conversely, were full glare security bulbs, protected behind thick safety glass and changed every six or seven months whether they needed to be or not.

Okay, the last person he expected to see standing there was Phil Coulson. Especially wearing jeans, a Henley, and a leather jacket to combat the rain that had been falling steadily for a couple of days. Clint knew he was fucked when Coulson looked even better than the six-pack of beer he was holding despite it being a long four weeks of meds and no alcohol.

Clint sighed at his own well-worn (well-loved) sweats hanging off his hips, then decided _fuck it_. No warning _and_ violating the unwritten rule that when Clint was here, he wasn't at SHIELD's beck and call (even if he didn't have three more weeks of mandatory medical leave). Coulson would just have to deal.

He hit the dimmer switch for the spotlight aimed directly on the body outline since Coulson's night vision would be for shit from the outside glare, then hit the code to his security system and unlocked the door. It opened with a screech that could wake up Clint when he was dead; one last security precaution that had not come standard with the SHIELD tech.

Coulson winced at the noise but said nothing. He also stepped on the floor art without hesitation (whereas most others who made it this far did what they could to avoid crossing the tape marks), taking note of course, but moving on to glance over the rest of Clint's place. Since Clint wasn't here very often, it wasn't messy, but then he also didn't have so many possessions as to make much mess.

Taking up half of the top floor of the building (the sixth, and the other half held two 'apartments'), his loft was a single room save for the bathroom behind the short branch of a "L" counter halfway down the right wall to form the kitchen area. Nearer was a couch out ten feet from the wall holding his state of the art entertainment center along with his vinyl collection and a few DVDs and two Lazy-boy chairs with a table set between them for setting down food, drinks, and remote controls. Beyond the kitchen/bathroom and out of view was Clint's futon and a wardrobe for his clothes, the wardrobe being smaller than his weapons locker. All hardwood floors and Clint hadn't bothered to cover them or the white painted concrete walls with rugs or art, though he had kept the eight feet of mirrors midway down the left hand wall and the barre from when this had once been a dance studio.

He didn't dance, but there was value in being able to see your form. This place was more bolt-hole than home, used most often when he was on medical leave like now, with nearly everything geared toward getting himself back in shape and for training.

Coulson seemed to be ignoring that Clint was shirtless too, although Clint thought (hoped) he'd caught Coulson taking a peek that had nothing to do with checking out Clint's recovery. (No, if he went by Coulson's involuntary quick lick of his lips, that had been a look. Or maybe Coulson was just reacting to the industrial strength de-humidifier Clint ran in his loft in addition to the AC.)

"The doctors said you were cleared, as long as the alcohol content wasn't stronger than ten percent." Coulson held up the beer.

"Schaerbeekse Kriek? Where in the hell did you find it?" Clint didn't disguise his pleasure at the offering. The beer was Belgian, not that well known, and something of an acquired taste beyond normal beers, which he'd developed thanks to Tasha and a long, four month undercover job a few years back. He moved to take it from Coulson, hesitating only a second before grabbing it with his left hand (he still held the gun in his right), but of course Coulson noticed, and this time the look-over he gave Clint was much more pointed as he took the beer back and followed Clint into his kitchen.

Clint had stayed in the clutches of SHIELD's medical wing for six days after that first night at Edwards and the flight back to New York. Tasha had visited every day, and even Fury had stopped by to check up on him, and to let him know that Blonsky was locked up and that the big brass were suggesting that Ross look at early retirement. (Of course, Ross was the type who'd fight doing so tooth and nail, who'd _make_ the Army pull the cord on him, and there was a part of Clint that actually respected that kind of doggedness. Ross had screwed up, but he hadn't been the only one pushing to have Blonsky as an Avenger, and it could have just as easily gone the way the WSC had wanted. That was the thing about fucking tinkering with DNA; mutations were unpredictable. Scapegoating Ross because he'd been the point man was a shitty way of handling it.)

Coulson had stopped by a few times too, once to handle the full debrief, and a couple more because that’s what a good CO did. They'd talked about nothing consequential, about the Initiative, and they'd both bitched about Stark after he'd somehow managed to contact and then convince one of the junior agents to give Clint her version of a Strippergram. Nothing all that different from any other time he or Tasha had gotten injured while on one of Coulson's ops, except this really hadn't been Coulson's op, and Sitwell was also a good CO type and had done his own stopping by to make sure Clint was recovering well enough.

Coulson's presence in that first week had left Clint thinking he might not have imagined some of Coulson's actions in Stark's Quinjet, but then the next two weeks had passed with no sign of Coulson other than his back, even when Clint hobbled into the commissary or stopped by to flirt with the various assistants that worked around Coulson's office. Coulson was a good enough agent to make it not look like he was avoiding Clint, and he was busy – always overworked – when Fury kept him close to home, but normally Coulson would surface long enough to sit with Clint and Tasha over coffee or lunch every few days, or stop down in the training rooms to observe or join in a session. Sure, Clint was banned from the training rooms and stuck with PT, but the locker rooms for both were the same and Clint knew that Phil wasn't letting his own training lapse –

"There's a store in San Francisco that stocks it. I had Agent Woo bring a case back," Phil answered as he removed his coat to hang it from the back of one of the two chairs Clint had paired with the high counter that separated the kitchen from the rest of the loft. He then headed to the refrigerator to store the rest of the beer while he brought two bottles with him.

Clint decided to ignore what that admission might mean lest he get screwed up about kind gestures again, and went for the easy shot, the type of flirting he used with everyone and which Coulson always ignored, as he hoisted himself up onto the countertop.

"What, but no dinner?" he asked with a broad gesture Coulson's direction. "One might think – "

"One might _know_ you put in a call to Mama Leone's ten minutes ago. If you're starting to carb load, you are not following your prescribed PT regimen." Coulson got that pinched look again, his lips flattening out into a thin line of disapproval when he took in the Nerf bow lying next to Clint on the counter, then over to the far wall filled with smiley faces, frowney faces and one lopsided butterfly made out of foam arrows.

Clint ignored the judgment too; if he couldn't pull any of his real bows for a couple more weeks, he still wasn't going to let himself go completely. He needed to get his range of motion back just as badly as his strength.  "I don't know if I should be appalled or flattered that you're suddenly misusing SHIELD resources on my behalf… Phil. Maybe I just like pasta."

"Natasha likes pasta," Coulson said in his driest, most understated tone; his form of humor. "But she is out of the country for the next week. You use food as fuel, with the exception of candyfloss, gummies and _Kakigōri_. Clint." His pause was deliberate, not hesitation.

Clint smiled to himself before laughing aloud and sliding back down as a new knock echoed from his front door. "You mean cotton candy, gumdrops and snow cones. God, you are such a snob."

"I'm not the one who drinks beer sold in only one store in America."

"No, just the one who bought it for me," Clint said mostly to himself as he walked away to pay for dinner.

He didn't know Coulson had followed him or overheard him until there was a hand on his arm and Coulson pulled out his own wallet.

"Let me. I'm the one who showed up unannounced. I'm also the one who's properly dressed to answer a door."

"A prude and a snob," Clint laughed to cover his blush. "At least let me get the tip. They're good girls, working in their mother's restaurant to help keep it running, while also putting themselves through college. Mr. Chiang died five years ago."

"You mean seeing you shirtless isn't the tip?"

That brought Clint up short, that tone saying it was an honest to God flirt in response, not a condemnation. Before he could come up with his own response, Coulson – no, this was obviously Phil – had checked the peephole and was opening the door; SHIELD had provided both their security systems.

Qian Chiang had won in tonight's throw down of roshambo over her sisters, Lian and  Xue. "Thirty-nine fifty, _z_ _uì bèi kànhǎo de péngyǒu_ ," she began until she caught sight of Phil. Her eyes widened almost comically, widening further when she saw Clint standing behind him in just his sweat pants but no towel.

 _"Wǒ hěn bàoqiàn. Wǒ bù zhīdào nǐ yǒu gōngsī,"_ she then apologized, her face turning bright red.

"You have nothing to apologize for and, yes, he is most favored," Phil assured her with a wink, his Mandarin almost as flawless as hers. "Thank you for coming out in the rain to make the delivery," he added, handing her sixty dollars instead of the fifty Clint would have.

Qian's blush deepened as she took the offered money, but something closer to unholy glee was filling her eyes as she once again looked between Phil and Clint, her smile turning into something like Tasha's when she thought she knew a secret.

"I work with him, Qian," Clint told her in an attempt to stop the train wreck this would bring on. In English since he understood and read Chinese well enough, but his accent was atrocious. "Do not be giving Xue ideas."

Xue constantly tried to set up blind dates for Clint during the few days a month Clint made it home, all women so far, but now she would no doubt expand her potential pool. (Which wasn't wrong, not that he had ever even hinted. But a nineteen year old's idea of good date material was quite different than Clint's, and somehow he didn't think that would change regardless of gender.

"Xue's best friend has a very nice older brother," Qian responded in English herself. "My best friend, however, has an even nicer one," she singsonged as she backed away. "His name is Virgil," she added just before she ducked into the elevator Clint never used.

"Maybe you do like pasta," was all Phil said, taking the box of food to the kitchen. What Clint had ordered would last through the weekend. Mrs. Chiang always added a deep dish of lasagna or baked ziti that he could freeze and share later with Tasha.

Clint popped open the beer bottles while Phil sorted out what had been sent over. "Mr. Chiang died while protecting eldest daughter Lian from an attacker," Clint offered after taking a long pull. "I couldn't get there fast enough to prevent that, but his sacrifice gave me enough time to make sure the guy couldn't rape Lian or anyone else ever again. Mrs. Chiang would feed me every night if I'd let her."

"I can put the restaurant on the approved SHIELD list if you want. Just for catering if having agents in your neighborhood makes you too twitchy."

Clint nodded, leaving the distinction up to Phil. Yes, having agents underfoot near his primary bolt-hole would make him twitchy, but it was more important to make sure Mrs. Chiang didn't have to close her doors. "You'll love her Arrabbiata sauce.  She adds Sichuan peppercorns if you ask."

He and Phil both had a fondness for hot and spicy dishes, with Clint favoring Mexican spices and peppers, Phil the more Indian varieties while they both liked the Eastern offerings. Tasha often despaired of eating out with them since she preferred bland food, or spiced hers with alcohol – wines more than vodka.

"From the smell of it, I'll enjoy her _Ossobuco_ too," Phil said with a pleased expression that looked strange (but nice) on his face. "She uses the cinnamon and _gremolata_ -based sauce, not the tomato, right?"

Phil had his own answer, of course, after he uncovered the dish, but Clint answered anyway while he hunted for plates and the like. He rather expected Phil was something of a foodie, whereas Clint simply knew what it was like not to have regular meals and was willing to try most anything once. He normally drew the line at MREs now, but Phil was also right in that generally food to Clint was fuel. A necessity, not an indulgence.

"She does both versions, but likes to mix up people's expectations, as if finding a little old Chinese woman who cooks Italian better than most of the guys left in Little Italy wasn't enough. I'm a willing test subject but I also have my favorites. How about you?"

"I think you know my favorites."

Clint paused, because from Phil's tone, suddenly they weren't talking about food and Clint _had not_ been leading Phil on for once. Flirting was one thing, and yeah it had been nice to have Phil reciprocate for once, but this wasn't flirting either. Now that it was before him and despite his thoughts while laid up and the first weeks after, Clint wasn't sure he was ready. This wouldn't be the first (or third) time someone was nice to Clint in order to tell him no.

Clint had never been a coward, however, nor normally self-delusional. If this was a brush off, well, he'd already proven he could still work with Tasha whether they were sleeping together or not. It wouldn't adversely affect his usefulness to SHIELD. Come to think of it, that fact ( _which Phil well knew_ ), worked just as well if this wasn't a brush off. SHIELD agents who couldn't compartmentalize their personal lives away from their agency lives never lasted long enough to make senior agent status.

"If I'm off target here… Phil," Clint began, setting down the plates and his beer before turning to leave them behind him as he moved to where Phil remained stationary at the counter.

"I've never seen you off target. Clint."

Phil was no coward either. He emptied his own hands and met Clint halfway.

 

 

 

_finis_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Mad Season (Podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/537512) by [greeniron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greeniron/pseuds/greeniron), [sian1359](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian1359/pseuds/sian1359)




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